The Elder Scrolls V: Second Seed
by Kim Chang-Ra
Summary: What do a shy Altmer, a sadistic Dunmer, and a bloodthirsty Breton have in common? In the year 205 of the Fourth Era, three novices of the College of Winterhold will embark on a quest that not only puts Tamriel in the balance—but sets their own destinies in motion as well.
1. Prologue

**A/N: So, I thought I'd try to do something a little different as far as TES fanfiction is concerned. This story is largely an experiment in that regard, as most of the original characters presented here are ones that I have played in Skyrim proper. Ironically enough, the only OC for which this is _not_ the case is the Dragonborn presented in this tale.**

**Warning: Rating is for thematic violence and suggestive situations that may or may not be considered taboo in your culture.**

**The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim is © 2011 by Bethesda Softworks; all original characters and content are mine.**

**Right! Here goes ...**

PROLOGUE

_Four years ago, in the year 201 of the Fourth Era, the dragons returned to Tamriel._

_Immortal children of Akatosh, the God of Time and greatest of the Divines, the dragons feared little and were feared by all, carving a swath of devastation with fire and frost, tooth and claw to prepare the way for the greatest of their number: Alduin—destroyer, devourer, master—the ancient Nordic god of destruction, the "World-Eater," and herald of the end of Nirn._

_But just as it was written that the dragons would return, so too would another Nordic legend: the last of his kind, neither mortal nor dragon, but a warrior without equal who hunted both. The dragons had a name for this fearsome warrior: Dovahkiin. But the rest of the world—both in prophesy and in deed—had its own name: the Last Dragonborn._

_The Dragonborn rose up against Alduin, traveling across the province of Skyrim, learning the ways of the ancient magic called the Voice, which could split the earth as easily as it could clear or cloud the sky. And it was with the Voice that the Dragonborn journeyed to Sovngarde—the afterlife of the Nords—and slew Alduin the World-Eater._

_The prophecy now fulfilled, the Dragonborn disappeared into the sea of rumor once more. But the changes this warrior left behind were far-reaching, and indeed, much has happened in the four years since Alduin was slain._

_The Civil War of Skyrim ended with the victory of the rebel leader Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of the city of Windhelm, over the Imperial Legion. But his victory was short-lived: one of his generals, Varulf Blackmane of the Companions, had his own designs for becoming High King of Skyrim. He betrayed Ulfric at the Jarl's own Moot, challenging him in front of the other Jarls of Skyrim according to ancient Nordic customs. Ulfric accepted, and fought well. But the challenge cost him his life, and the Jarls recognized Varulf in unison as the true High King._

_The shadowy and sinister Dark Brotherhood has become stronger than ever, and is even rumored to be behind the sudden passing of Titus Mede II, the Emperor of Tamriel. The Thieves Guild of Riften, covert and dastardly, has been enjoying a similar resurgence as well. But both are at odds with one another; Maven Black-Briar, a powerful woman with connections to both factions, has been assassinated, and each is convinced the other is responsible._

_Yet even in the middle of all this conflict, there are those who will still take their own sides, or keep to themselves in order to survive. The Greybeards, masters of the Voice, continue to live in seclusion within their fortress of High Hrothgar, on the highest mountain in Tamriel—the Throat of the World. The Blades, sworn protectors of the Dragonborn in eras long past, continue to rebuild after being driven to near extinction by the supremacist Second Aldmeri Dominion. _

_And finally, the College of Winterhold—once the greatest institution for learning the ways of magic in Skyrim, now a crumbling shadow of its former glory—struggles to regain the trust of the Nords. After thwarting an attempt by the Dominion to steal a powerful artifact, they appear to have made steps in that regard, but just how far they have left to go remains to be seen …_

* * *

_"It certainly isn't a coincidence that a master of the School of Illusion cast this attack on the School of Destruction. Illusion is, after all, all about masking the truth."_

- Battlemage Malviser, _Response to Bero's Speech_

* * *

The stone halls of the citadel reached dozens of feet high, disappearing into darkness so black that not even the combined illumination of Masser and Secunda could penetrate it. And even if it could, those twin moons were separated by more than just shadows; a layer of rock, immeasurably thick, and as old as the ancient city carved into it, made sure that not one inch of the place never saw the light of day or night.

Not that he needed it, anyway.

The figure strode across the floor—his steps slow but filled with purpose. A blinding white point of light hovered just behind his right shoulder, throwing his hooded face into complete shadow. He paused every now and then, admiring the wonders of this city—a finger caressing the dusty floor, as smooth today as it was four thousand years ago; a brief sniff through his nostrils, smelling the cloying air of a chamber that had not been occupied in centuries; a longing gaze at the glint of brass-like metal that adorned the walls and ceilings of the chamber, metal that would never rust, nor would ever be recreated by the efforts of man or elf again.

And the sound—a deep, melodious thrumming noise that echoed throughout the halls and resonated within his body, vibrating his bones and sending shivers up his spine, and carving downward into his very soul. Even over the clattering, chaotic accompaniment—the turning of great golden gears, the hiss of massive boilers and pistons, and the chugging of engines concealed deep within the mass of rock—the sound still persisted, the only element of order in the chaos this ruin had become.

For it was more than a simple sound, he knew: it was a song; a dirge that their creators had been singing for the last three eras, and would sing until the end of the world. It was the last song they would ever sing.

It was also a reminder; for two human lifetimes, this song had guided him, persuaded him that they were still out there. It had guided his research, and it in turn had guided him here.

His eyes caught on something up ahead: a small pedestal of rock, too small to be a bed, but too large to be a single chair. It was lined in the same golden trim as the walls surrounding it, and the metal was covered in characteristically angular lines and curves, patterns both simple and complex. Within this pedestal sat a recess, long enough to hold an ordinary dagger, but substantially thicker. He traced a finger within this recess, feeling for lumps and ridges.

He found them—in exactly the places he'd been looking for, no less.

Beneath his hood, he grinned. _No doubt about it_.

He reached into the pockets of his robe, and produced a quill with a sealed well of ink. There were plenty of sheaves of parchment in this chamber that he might be able to put to use. The passing of nearly four thousand years had left them weathered and worn, though not to the extent of total decay—so well had they been preserved. But this message was too important to leave to the risks of bargaining with a force as fickle as time. Fortunately, he knew just the spell to remedy that.

A flash of green issued from his hand as it clutched a sheet of parchment, and the thin substance was immediately encased in a rippling glow, like sunlight on a riverbed. He had a brief moment of pride, thinking he would rather like to see the spell or sword capable of unsealing, never mind destroying outright, the message he was presently composing:

_To the Arch-Mage of Winterhold,_

_It has come to my attention that your College acquired a magical artifact of great power some years ago. It has also come to my attention that said acquisition came on the cusp of a change in your staff structure. While I express my greatest condolences regarding your predecessor, Savos Aren, and Master Wizard Mirabelle Ervine, I fear I cannot offer you much time to adjust to those changes._

_Two months ago, I funded an excavation of the Jerall Mountains to the south of Riften, where the Dwarven city of Rkund once stood. Our efforts have recently uncovered something within that may be of interest to you and your College—and indeed, every magical institution in Tamriel were they to hear word._

_But I have heard much of the exploits of your College, and am of the belief that you should have first rights to see this discovery for yourself. I do not trust the other citizens of Skyrim, unfortunately, and so I cannot disclose any other details to you, lest this message find its way into the wrong hands. I ask you, therefore, to please come to Rkund and assist me in my efforts. _

With a final flourish, he pocketed his quill and ink, and sealed the glowing letter in a tightly furled scroll. Then, holding the scroll in his still-glowing hand, he twitched his fingers briefly, and the bright green color turned into an ominous-looking purple.

He hurled the scroll at the floor. Before it could complete its trajectory, however, the purple glow exploded in a flash of dark light, sizzling into a portal of Oblivion. Then, it vanished, and in its place was a majestic-looking wolf, its spectral fur glowing purplish-blue. The scroll was just barely visible within its mouth.

"Go to the College of Winterhold," the figure instructed softly, in a whisper that was barely audible over the grating machinery. "Seek out the Arch-Mage. Let no one stop you. Let no weapon pierce you."

Howling mournfully, the familiar turned on its paws, and sped down the stone halls towards its destination.

The figure sat down on the pedestal, lazily tracing his finger in the recess once more.

_Soon_, he told himself. _Soon …_


	2. I

I

_Winterhold_

"Cross the bridge at your own peril!"

Faralda's voice cut through the snowstorm battering Winterhold like the crack of a whip. The woman before her stepped back a few paces as if she had been stung.

Immediately, the Altmer sorceress wondered if maybe she had spoken a little too sharply. Tonight's storm made speaking at a more reasonable tone difficult, however, and as much as Faralda knew the College of Winterhold could use more students right now, it wouldn't do to take just anyone in—they needed the best.

However, she thought, how fortunate it was to see yet another prospective scholar on the College's doorstep—the third one in two days, if she recalled correctly. One had arrived this morning, and had cast an excellent firebolt spell at Faralda's insistence.

And so, she continued on with the speech she felt like she'd given thousands of times. "The way is dangerous, and the gate will not open. You shall not gain entry!"

She studied the woman before her. Her skin was grayish, almost blue from the wind and cold: a dark elf. The hood over her head allowed only a faint glimpse of the blood-red eyes of the Dunmer. Very red indeed, Faralda thought; like freshly picked apples in season.

"Who are you?" the Dunmer asked. She sounded raspy, a little out of breath, and the way she was nursing her right arm led Faralda to suspect this might not be due to the cold. Sure enough, as she looked to the entrance of the town, she saw one of the town guards hunched over several bodies. A flicker of irritation moved across her brow. _Damned bandits_.

"I am here to assist those seeking the wisdom of the College," she explained to the Dunmer, lowering her voice a little, but compensating with a slightly more no-nonsense tone. "And if, in the process, my presence helps to deter those who might seek to do harm, so be it."

The Dunmer said nothing. Confident now that this was indeed a hopeful student, and not just another foolhardy bandit, Faralda pressed on. "But the more important question is: why are you here?"

She waited a few seconds before the Dunmer responded. "I want to unravel the mysteries of Aetherius," said the elf.

Faralda nodded in appreciation, though she couldn't help but wryly smirk to herself. _If I had a septim for every time I heard that …_ "The immortal plane," she said, her voice considerably warmer now. "It is said to be the source of all magic. This is a noble goal indeed.

"It would seem the College has what you seek," Faralda continued. "The question now is what _you_ can offer the College. Not just anyone is allowed inside. Those wishing to enter must show some degree of skill with magic. A small test, if you will."

It was another few seconds before the Dunmer spoke. "All right. I'll take your test," she said. She sounded a little more confident now.

Faralda smiled; already she had the perfect test lined up for this one. Dark elves were naturals at fire magic; another firebolt would be too easy for this one. _Perhaps … yes_.

"Those invested in restoration magic find Healing Hands to be essential," she finally said. "Can you cast it on me? That would prove your skill."

The Dunmer considered this for a moment, and then wordlessly raised her good hand in the Altmer's direction. For a second, a bright light began to dance across the dark elf's gray fingers. One second later, that light was being fired in a gentle beam towards Faralda, its rays enveloping her, warming her freezing body as if she'd just stepped inside the Frozen Hearth Inn.

Then, as quickly as it had started, the Dunmer's hand had lowered, and the blizzard was blowing again. But the warmth still persisted, much to Faralda's relief. _Much better_.

She did her best to contain a sigh of contentment. "Well done, indeed," she said to the Dunmer. "I think you'll make a superb addition to the College."

The high elf reached out to shake her hand. "Welcome, apprentice."

She regretted the action right as the Dunmer returned the gesture—her hand was _cold_, almost frostbitten, even! Had she been traveling through this cursed snowstorm in nothing but a simple robe and boots?

"I'll lead you across the bridge," she said, feeling her maternal instinct kick in. This woman needed to get inside, and fast. "Once you're inside, speak with Tolfdir in the Hall of the Elements. The large door, right down the middle of the courtyard. Tolfdir's our Master Wizard; he'll get a bed set up for you in no t—"

She broke off suddenly, her eyes fixated on something in the distance, bounding over the freezing bodies on the outskirts of Winterhold. Within moments, it had arrived at the entrance to the College, barely feet away from her. She knew immediately what it was now that it was this close.

Conjuring a familiar was not a spell Faralda tested on potential students; even a novice could do that. But somehow, she suspected that this spellwork was much more intricate than a simple conjuration. This familiar looked much more lifelike, and Faralda would have it for the genuine article if it didn't look so … well, ghostly. But what really drew her attention wasn't the familiar itself.

_What in Oblivion?_

As Faralda looked on in confusion, the wolf was dispelled with a yelp of pain and a burst of purple magic. The thing it had been holding in its mouth dropped to the snow, and Faralda was only just able to catch it by the tips of her fingers before the wind blew it away.

It was some kind of scroll, she noticed. The whole thing was shimmering a metallic green color, similar to an armor spell. Stoneflesh, she deduced, as she poked a finger experimentally at the scroll—the layer of magicka protecting it from the elements was of roughly the same density as that particular spell.

_A trained familiar, and a magically sealed scroll …_

Faralda frowned. This was apprentice-level magic, surely. But the inventive way it had been used indicated someone with quite a bit more skill than that.

She looked behind her shoulder; the Dunmer had apparently tired of being delayed, and was now passing over the narrow bridge—the only link between the College and the outside world—spanning the chasm that had opened below in the wake of the Great Collapse, and taken much of the old Winterhold with it.

Her mind made up, Faralda hurried in her wake, coming narrowly close to bowling the Dunmer over the edge in her haste as she made for the Hall of the Elements, only sparing enough time to gasp out a brief apology.

Whatever this scroll was, it was obviously important.

And somehow, Faralda knew it could only be for one person.

* * *

Eventually, the Dunmer finally arrived within the College's main hall, and no sooner had the great door banged shut than she had started shaking all the snow out from her clothes. The precipitation collected in puddles on the floor.

If she was honest, it wasn't much warmer in here than it was out there. There were few torches, if any; instead, magical spheres of white light were suspended a few inches above their sconces. A mass of blue energy swirled from a well in the room beyond: an impressive stone chamber, completely round, and blocked off by a metal gate almost as large as the door she'd just passed through.

As she pushed this open, too, she saw she was not alone; there were four figures in the chamber, three of whom were clustered together. Of this group, two had their backs turned to her; she judged them to be students, from the tan robes and hoods they wore. A third, however, was in plain sight—an old Nord in a grayish-purple robe, with a satchel slung over one shoulder. This must be the lecture hall, she surmised.

_Which means that old man must be Tolfdir_. She decided to stay back near the steps for a bit, as he appeared to be in the middle of a lesson. Maybe it would give her clothes a little more time to dry off.

But Tolfdir chose that moment to look up and notice the new arrival. "Ah, welcome, welcome!" he said genially. He had a demeanor about him that felt highly infectious, and warmer than any hearth an inn could hope to have. The Dunmer couldn't help but smile back despite her surprise.

"We were just about to begin," Toldfir said, inviting her over. "Please, stay and listen."

The dark elf shrugged. _Might as well._ Slowly, she rose up from the steps and strode to the rest of the group.

"So, as I was saying," Tolfdir said as he returned to his lecture, "the first thing you must understand is that magic is, by its very nature, volatile and dangerous. Unless you can control it, it can and will destroy you."

"I tried to cast a firebolt when I was little," related the student to the right of the Dunmer, a rather short, fiery-haired girl. Her round, pale face and beady little eyes, made more so by the dark orange tattoos that seemed to spill from her eyes and mouth, told the elf that this was a Breton—one of the half-elves native to High Rock, west of Skyrim. "It worked a little too well—scarred my hand pretty badly."

She held up her left hand, and the Dunmer could see a nasty, reddish-brown splotch running from palm to wrist. She caught a faint whiff of something acrid as well—like burnt juniper—and fought the urge to sneeze.

"My point exactly, Miss Ionsaithe," said Tolfdir. "You all possess inherent magical abilities, to be sure. But what I'm talking about is true control—mastery of magic. It takes years, if not decades, to practice and study it."

The Dunmer couldn't resist a little snort. She knew a thing or two about mastery of magic, if earlier today was any indication. Her right arm gave a twinge where it had been wounded, and instinctively she clutched it tightly.

Tolfdir paused at the interruption, looking at the Dunmer with a concerned expression. "Is something the matter, my dear?"

The dark elf looked up. "Nothing's the matter," she said a little too forcefully. "Just … I just got a bit of a scrape on the way over. That's all."

Tolfdir inspected it, humming to himself. "Oh, dear," he said gently. "Just hold still, and—"

His hand briefly lit up, and touched the wound on her arm. Before she could even think to cry out, the rather large cut had resealed itself, and much of the feeling had been restored to her hand.

"Ah. Much better, yes, Miss—?" Tolfdir stepped back, smiling warmly at her, until he apparently remembered that he had not yet asked for her name.

"Malys," she replied automatically. "Malys Aryon, House Hlaalu."

"Pleasure to meet you, my dear," Tolfdir said graciously, extending his hand. Malys waved it away, trying to be polite. She wasn't all the way warm yet, and Tolfdir's healing magic hadn't gotten rid of the aching feeling completely. Thankfully, the elderly wizard seemed to understand.

"So … why are we just standing around?" asked Malys, feeling a little bolder now. "Aren't we generally supposed to _learn_ something at a College?"

The other student glared at her; this one was unmistakably a high elf, Malys could see. Altmer were a full head taller than most other men or mer in Tamriel—and ten times as haughty, so said their enemies. But in spite of this elf's apparent dislike, Malys caught something else mixed in: a constant sense of paranoia, like the Altmer was going to blow up like a badly drawn rune every time she turned a corner. More apparent than that, however, was the way she smelled—it was a dry, cloying odor, like a very bad thunderstorm.

Tolfdir chuckled. "Quite right, quite right," he said. "But this is exactly what I'm talking about, Miss Aryon. I say this to every student who wishes to master the arcane arts: eagerness must be tempered with caution, or else disaster is inevitable."

Malys privately admitted that between the Breton and the Altmer, there certainly appeared to be enough of both for one person. "As cliché as it sounds, you never know until you try," she said, sparing herself a roll of the eyes at the suggestion. Her father had been full of those old sayings, she recalled fondly.

Tolfdir considered this. "Hmm. Well, I suppose you're right," he admitted. "I usually teach the more practical lessons later on, but something tells me you all can handle it. However, I still place a priority on safety, so on that note, we'll be starting off with wards today."

Malys knew what wards were. Generally, they were protective spells that could block just about everything possible. The most complex could take dozens of people to perform over a very long time, but could seal anything from a door to an entire tomb. The wards she assumed Tolfdir was talking about, however, were mainly used to block most magical attacks.

Tolfdir turned to the Altmer. "You've been quiet so far," he noted. "Would you mind helping me with the demonstration, Miss—?"

" … Vinye," the high elf said, after a rather long, awkward silence, and she slowly stepped forward.

"Are you at all familiar with ward spells, my dear?" Tolfdir asked kindly.

The elf reluctantly nodded. "A little," she said. Malys wasn't surprised; this Vinye seemed more likely to be the fire-and-flee type than any kind of battlemage. Not that this automatically labeled her as a coward; Malys was merely of the opinion that natural surroundings like rocks and trees often offered the best type of protection—a sentiment the elf seemed to share.

"That's all right," soothed Tolfdir. "That's one reason why I'm giving this lesson. Now, if you could just stand right over there"—he indicated the seal before them, a five-pointed star with an eye in the center—"then I'll cast a spell at you, and you'll block it with your ward."

Vinye obeyed, planting her feet firmly on the eye of the seal. She took a few deep breaths, altered her stance slightly, and spread out her palms before her. What looked like a translucent silver flame sprouted from her left hand; Vinye reached out with this flame towards Tolfdir …

* * *

_Meanwhile …_

Two floors above the Hall of the Elements, Faralda paced the stone floor with a manic energy, while a stocky man in ornately woven robes studied the scroll she had just given to him.

"'The city of Rkund,'" the man quoted from the letter. His thick Nordic brogue rolled over the unfamiliar name with some difficulty. "I wasn't aware the dwarves had built a city that close to Riften. I've heard there were ruins, yes, but nothing to suggest a full-scale settlement."

"You think the letter's a fake?" Faralda asked. "There wasn't any name, either—if I'm honest, I've got a very bad feeling about this."

The Arch-Mage of Winterhold shook his head. "It took me a full thirty seconds to break the seal on this scroll," he said. "Whoever sent this is definitely telling the truth, or else he wouldn't go to such lengths to keep his message a secret."

"Still," Faralda said, "Riften's a long way from here. Who's to say whoever sent this doesn't just want you out in the open?"

"Who, me?" the man laughed. "_Arch-Mage_ Grimnir Torn-Skull?"

Faralda didn't smile back. "Maybe I wasn't talking about the _Arch-Mage_."

Though she couldn't see Grimnir's face, the Altmer didn't have to imagine the shadow falling across it.

But it was there for only a second. "Why don't you speak with Tolfdir?" Grimnir offered. "He may be getting on in years, but I think he'd still jump at the chance for another field trip."

Faralda started. "You're not suggesting—!" She closed her mouth suddenly, and chewed her tongue. Then, a little more quietly, "With respect, Arch-Mage, how do you know this isn't going to turn out to be another Saarthal? Don't you remember what we found in there? Don't you remember what it led to?!"

"Of course I do." The Nord's voice was as cold as the blizzard outside. "And I have faith that nothing of the sort will happen again. Faith in the College, and faith in you."

There was a long pause.

Faralda sighed in resignation. "Then send J'zargo, too. He may be an _acting_ master instructor, and he may be a Khajiit, but he's still a damn good mage. If there really is a Dwemer city out there, Divines know that might be all the incentive he'll need to come along. And with all the practicing he does in the Hall downstairs, I think he'd appreciate a chance to get outdoors for a change, put his skills to use."

Grimnir considered this for a time. "J'zargo is an expert in destruction magic," he conceded. "I remember the first time he asked me if I'd mastered those spells. I knew then and there it was only a matter of time before he'd be doing them himself. Once a Khajiit sniffs an opportunity, he'll go as far as he can to get it."

He stood up from his chair. "The matter is settled, then—we'll explore this 'city of Rkund.' I'll stay behind and wait for your findings. Inform Tolfdir and J'zargo—tell them to be ready to leave at dawn."

Faralda nodded. "Of course, sir." That could have gone better, she admitted, but the Arch-Mage had proved to be fair, just, and above all confident in his tenure thus far. She had little choice but to see his decision through.

_Nords and their adventures_, she thought as she descended the staircase to the lecture hall.

* * *

"There we are," Tolfdir encouraged her, as the flame in Vinye's palm slowly blossomed into a clear, liquid shield. "Keep it up … "

And then suddenly he moved faster than any mage Malys had ever seen, his right hand a near-total blur. The Dunmer wondered if this was some underhanded trick, to goad his pupils into overreacting. And for a moment—just before blinding sparks of magical energy blasted forth from Tolfdir's outstretched fingers—Malys thought she might be right; the ward suddenly brightened as Vinye let out a startled gasp, and it came very close to destabilizing then and there.

But it was clear this was just a practice spell Tolfdir was using, nowhere near as destructive as what a mage could be capable of; the sparks were also expertly spread out—Tolfdir certainly hadn't earned the title of Master Wizard for nothing. Moreover, Malys noticed something rather odd; Vinye's right hand was coursing with lightning magic not unlike Tolfdir's, though it was much less noticeable and even less concentrated—almost invisible from a distance. What was even odder was that she was not firing it at the old mage, or anyone in particular—instead, it looked like she was actually feeding it into her ward somehow.

_Is she strengthening it?_ Malys wondered. _Is that possible—combining restoration magic with destruction magic? Or is she just trying to show off?_

Whatever the reason, by the time Vinye was finished, Tolfdir was beaming. "Excellent, excellent work!" he exclaimed. "A wonderful start already, if I do say so myself. Now, then," he turned to Malys and the Breton, "which of you would like to go n—"

He broke off suddenly, looking at a point past Malys' shoulder. "Excuse me, please," he said, his voice a sudden hush, and strode off abruptly.

Malys turned around, and saw the Altmer she'd met at the entrance to the College striding into the chamber. She did not look happy.

Tolfdir met her halfway across, and the two master mages commenced a hushed conversation that Malys, try as she might, could not make out at all. The elf was gesturing everywhere, pointing her finger towards the ceiling quite a few times, and even towards Malys' general direction once or twice.

Eventually, they leaned away from each other, and both now walked towards the students.

"Well, good news and bad news, I'm afraid," Tolfdir said as he approached them. "The bad news is we'll have to leave this lesson right here for the time being. Don't worry, ladies, I trust you'll all practice your ward spells further before we meet again.

"The good news is we've just received word from the Arch-Mage that a fascinating excavation is taking place in the ruins of Rkund. Faralda here has informed me we've been invited to explore their work so far, and I think this will be an excellent learning opportunity for us all. We'll meet there in two days' time if any of you are interested. That's all for now, thank you."

With that, the three students dispersed. Malys made as if to say hello to Vinye, but the Altmer had already rushed out of the hall like a sabercat on skooma—not bothering to mutter so much as a good-bye.

"Why am I not surprised?" said the Breton in a reedy voice as she watched her go.

"Hmm?"

"Don't tell me you didn't see what she was doing?" Her round face was stony. "That elf was cheating, and she knows it. She just didn't want to own up."

"What makes you think Tolfdir didn't see anything?" Malys replied, somewhat defensively. "He was closer than any of us—I don't see how he wouldn't have noticed."

"This one thinks the elf would make a good Khajiit," said a low voice.

Malys jumped—she'd all but forgotten about the fourth figure thanks to the impromptu lesson. Now, however, she could see him in greater detail as he stepped from the shadows: a Khajiit—a catlike race from the deserts of Elsweyr, in the very south of Tamriel. He was covered head to toe in dark gray fur, and wore robes and a satchel much like Tolfdir's, though his clothing was a light green where Tolfdir's was more burgundy. Bizarrely, the Khajiit sported a sizable jet-black mustache in addition to his whiskers, and Malys could see the Breton doing her best to not burst out laughing at the ridiculous thing.

"J'zargo did not mean to scare," the Khajiit purred in an oily voice, tail swishing side to side. Malys rather doubted that—there was a reason the Khajiit were among the least-trusted races in Tamriel. To be fair, none of the beast-folk were treated any better in Skyrim than the elves were. The Nords were the worst offenders—she didn't like to talk about it, but there was a reason Malys never went to Windhelm anymore.

"Why do you think she'd make a good cat?" the Breton asked, finally managing to swallow her laughter.

"She reminds J'zargo of someone else when he walked in your boots," J'zargo smiled, a toothy grin that sent a tiny chill up Malys' spine. "A powerful magician who mastered the expert-level Destruction spells quicker than anyone else J'zargo knew."

Malys couldn't think of a more contrasting comparison. The Breton, meanwhile, kept on asking questions. "You knew expert-level spells when you were still a novice?" she scoffed. "I thought you Khajiit were supposed to be _good_ at lying."

J'zargo kept smiling that odd little smile. "It does not matter what this one could do when he was young," he said, twirling his mustache in what he must have imagined was the indicator of a wise man. "It only matters what this one can do _now_." He clapped his furry paws together. "So, what is it they call you?"

"Cosette," said the Breton, in a voice as sweet as nightshade. "Go ahead and call me 'Cozy'—the last person who did saw his own insides before I killed him. Most people I kill don't even get that much."

J'zargo raised an eyebrow, but otherwise said nothing. Malys, meanwhile, suddenly found herself wishing she wasn't standing so close to the Breton. Something in Cosette's beady eyes had changed, she could tell; where the tiny half-elf had been confident, if perhaps overly so, now it sounded like she was ready to make good on her threat.

Quickly as she could, Malys moved to defuse the tense situation. "Malys Aryon, House Hlaalu." She moved rather closely to J'zargo, grabbing him by the collar of his robe with just the slightest bit of forcefulness, and adopted a husky voice that would have made Helviane Desele proud, Azura rest her soul.

"But if you know what's good for you," she hissed in his ear, in a whisper loud enough for the Breton to hear—and very lightly stroking J'zargo's forearm with two fingers for good measure—"then you will call me _Mistress_ Malys."

She released her grip on his robe, and stepped back to enjoy the effect of her words. Cosette looked as though she'd been slapped in the face with a baby mudcrab. Her mouth was half-open, and her face was almost as red as her hair. J'zargo, meanwhile, was standing stock-still, his ears standing up on end. Then, to Malys' complete surprise, he threw back his head and laughed—long and hard.

"Ha ha _ha!_" J'zargo cackled, wiping a tear from his face and slapping his knee. "By the Mane, you amuse this one! Perhaps J'zargo was wrong—you might have more Khajiit in you than the high elf, no?" He grinned, showing his teeth again. "It is good to be around mages who can keep up with J'zargo."

"Who says I want to stop there?" Malys challenged, a daring smile on her face.

"J'zargo!" Tolfdir was calling from across the hall. "J'zargo, my boy, might I have a word with you?"

The Khajiit waved a paw in reply. "J'zargo does not need to _say_ anything," J'zargo said slyly, turning back to Malys. "J'zargo only needs to _do_, and he will win." And with that, he strode through the hall to Tolfdir. The old man put a friendly arm around the cat, and together they strode out the door and into the courtyard.

Malys watched him go, feeling a little foolish—though _only_ a little—about her actions. "Well," she finally said, turning around to Cosette, who was still furiously red in the face. "A Khajiit as a mage. That isn't exactly something you see every day."

"Forget the cat!" Cosette burst out. "What in Oblivion was _that_ all about?"

"For a Khajiit, being underhanded isn't just a stigma," Malys said. "Sometimes, it's a way of life. It's their way of competition, that's all; I was only—oh, how do those Nords say it—getting on his level?"

She turned back towards the door where J'zargo had left. It was getting close to nighttime, and she was beginning to feel a little tired. She suddenly realized that she'd entirely forgotten to ask Tolfdir where she would be staying, and made for the door to the outside.

"That's not what I meant!" said Cosette, hurrying after her. "Why were you getting all … you know?" She choked on the words, as if she wanted to say something else completely, but couldn't bring herself to.

"We Dunmer know a thing or two about stigmas ourselves," Malys said, opening the door to the courtyard. Mercifully, the snowstorm had died down substantially; now there were only a few errant flakes falling from the sky. "It's not uncommon for female dark elves to act that promiscuous when they're young—or have you never read about Queen Barenziah? If anyone knows something about a Khajiit's p—"

"Finish that sentence and I will skin you alive," Cosette said flatly.

"And that's another thing," Malys retorted. "Fine thing for you to say to someone you've never met, 'Oh, hello. I'm going to make sure you die a horrible death one day.' What were you thinking, saying something like that? Do you say that to everyone you meet?"

"You've never heard of the Ionsaithe clan?" Cosette was incredulous.

That caught Malys off guard. " … No?"

Cosette huffed. "What about the War of the Bend'r-mahk?"

" … Let's say I haven't."

As they passed through the College courtyard, Cosette proceeded to explain to her how, two hundred and fifty-odd years ago, the Bretons and Redguards of High Rock and Hammerfell had waged war with Skyrim, how the city of Dragonstar had been split in two for over thirty years while the war raged on, and how the whole war had been used by Jagar Tharn to create a Shadow of Conflict. Malys was grateful she did not explain _those_ to her—if she was as enthusiastic about them as she apparently was about war, they might be here well into the night.

" … My clan fought in Dragonstar for all those thirty years," she concluded, as they finally made their way to the Hall of Attainment, where their dormitories were located. "When it was inevitable the Nords would win, we decided to flee the town, and we went through to Skyrim."

"That … doesn't quite answer my question," Malys said, as they entered the dormitory. Like the lecture hall, the Hall of Attainment was a circular tower with a well of blue energy at its focus. Beds for students and scholars alike lined the outer wall, along with facilities for enchanting and alchemy.

Cosette sighed. "The Ionsaithes are a clan that values bloodshed above all else—well, they used to be, anyway. My parents and I are probably the last pure-blooded Ionsaithes alive right now." She laughed ruefully. "When death threats are more or less your family's way of saying 'hello,' it can be easy to take things the wrong way. That's probably why there aren't that many of us left."

_Indeed_, Malys thought, rolling her eyes. "So why come here, then?" she asked, deciding to ignore that particular mammoth in the room for right now and focus on being a little more cordial. "It sounds like you know enough ways to kill someone without having to study magic."

"In the old tongue, 'Ionsaithe' means 'invincible'," Cosette replied. "It's the one thing I want to be." Her voice suddenly grew uncharacteristically quiet. "It's also the one thing I _don't_ want to be," she murmured.

Malys frowned. "Sorry?"

"Never mind." There was a moment of silence as the two managed to find a pair of unoccupied beds on the top level of the hall.

"What about you?" Cosette asked, once the two mages had made themselves at home. "Why are you studying here?"

Malys brightened a little bit—Cosette's brief moment of melancholy (she would have to ponder that later on) seemed to have mellowed her out a little. "Illusion, mostly. But I want to work on my conjuration and destruction, too. I'm not terrible, but I'm not all that great, either."

"Illusion?" Cosette tilted her head.

"Of course. Didn't you ever want to turn invisible when you were young?"

Cosette's pallid face drained further still, and Malys instinctively knew she'd hit a sore spot. " … Forget I asked."

"It's all right." Though she recovered quickly, Cosette's voice suggested anything but. "It's just that illusion doesn't sound all that useful next to all the other schools of magic. I can _maybe_ understand Invisibility and Muffle, but all those others like Calm spells and Fury spells—they're gambles. I don't leave things up to chance—if it wants to kill me, fine," she said hotly. "I'll just kill it first."

Malys shrugged. "Suit yourself," she said. "You have your ways, I have mine." _Please, please, _please_ don't ask about _my_ ways_, she thought pleadingly.

Thankfully, she was spared from that possible line of questioning when Vinye walked in. She had a book clutched in one hand—which, upon closer inspection from Malys, turned out to be _The History of Raven Rock_—and a whole stack of them in the other. Malys briefly wondered if she was going to do the same thing as before and ignore both her and Cosette completely. But at the last second, she halted and turned to them, apparently just now seeing they were there.

"You should get some sleep," she said tersely. Her voice was still a little unsteady after Tolfdir's lecture. "We're leaving for the Rift first thing in the morning."

Now that she had a better look at her face, Malys decided the elf uncannily resembled her mother. From her bobbed blonde hair to the permanent frown that creased her face, Vinye looked like she would be more at home in the College as a professor or a librarian. All that gave her away as a student were her vivid green eyes, or more to the point, the downcast expression they wore. But behind that air of nervousness, Malys could see a desire to learn—not just of magical theory or technique, but also of _truth_. And if she was honest, it scared her a little.

Vinye laid some of her books on Malys' and Cosette's end tables. "Here," she said, pushing the books gingerly towards the novices as though they might bite her. "Something to read for the trip ahead. Just make sure they're in one piece when you're done—Urag doesn't like damaged goods."

Malys peered over her bed to look at them. All of them seemed to be about the Dwemer—the technologically advanced race of elves who had mysteriously disappeared long ago in the First Era—and there were a few titles she vaguely recognized: _Tamrielic Lore … Ruins of Kemel-Ze … Chronicles of Nchuleft …_

"Um … thanks?" she asked tentatively.

Before either of them could say anything more, the Altmer had turned away from them, and strode across the hall to her own bed. She promptly tucked herself in, and cracked open the book on Raven Rock that Malys had seen earlier.

"I'd rather she just ignored us," Cosette said very quietly after a while.

"What is it between you two?" Malys asked in a whisper. "Do you have some kind of history with her?"

"No, nothing like that," Cosette said defensively. "She only just got here a day before I did."

"So?"

"It was just before you got here," Cosette explained. "When I first arrived in the main hall this morning, the first thing I saw was complete panic. Half the students and staff were running around like headless chickens. It might have been funny if there wasn't a storm atronach chasing after them all."

Malys almost forgot to whisper. "A _storm_ atronach?" That was an expert-level conjuration spell, she recalled—something that was not at all lightly taught or learned. She looked at Vinye in disbelief. "Are you saying she—?"

"She did," Cosette nodded sagely. "Only something went wrong. She summoned it, but I heard she forgot to bind it in the process. It went wild—started attacking everyone within reach. I heard the Conjuration master—Phinis Gestor—needed to get the Arch-Mage's help to even _banish_ the damned thing."

Malys cringed. "What happened to Vinye?"

"They found her in the library on the next story about a half-hour later," Cosette said dispassionately. "She wasn't hurt, but she was scared out of her wits, from what I was told. As well she should be," she added, a bit sourly. "I don't know why, but she never got punished. No one else is even _mad_ at her, as far as I know—though I'm pretty sure that's the _real_ reason why Tolfdir gave us that speech on safety."

Malys looked at Vinye, her olive-skinned nose buried in a different book, now. _Did she finish that last one already? _She squinted at the cover—_Rising Threat_, it looked like, though she couldn't be sure from this distance.

"What does that have to do with her being a cheater?" she asked.

"She's a _novice_, Malys," Cosette said insistently. "She shouldn't have been able to summon a storm atronach in the first place!" Her eyes narrowed. "She must have used a scroll behind her back. Probably got swindled by one of the caravans when she got it, too. It was a cheap imitation, or it was poorly written, and that's why the atronach went berserk."

Malys was skeptical. Granted, that wasn't the most unbelievable explanation she'd expected to hear. But right now, she had a suspicion that Cosette was merely feeling petty jealousy towards the Altmer. Bretons were adept in magic, true—perhaps more so than dark elves—but high elves were on a whole other level above both races.

"Maybe she was taught someplace else before she came here," Malys mused. "The College of Winterhold can't be the only one of its kind in Tamriel, right?"

Cosette shook her head. "It isn't. But high elves are very particular about where they learn their magic," she said. "The only places I can think of that she'd even _consider_ going to would be the Synod and the College of Whispers. And from what I've heard, there's a _lot_ more politics involved over there than actual magic. Even J'zargo would have had a hard time avoiding everyone trying to undercut him at every turn."

Malys didn't know much about either of those institutions—only that they were splinter cells of the Mages Guild in Cyrodiil, formed some two hundred years ago in the wake of the Oblivion Crisis. If Vinye did indeed go there at some point in time, though … She thought of J'zargo and his first words to Malys. _Perhaps Vinye really would make a good Khajiit_, she mused. _She certainly has us puzzled enough_.

"The only other explanation is that she had a tutor," Cosette said. "If that's true, I'd like to meet whoever taught her to do that. Because I have no idea what in Oblivion she's doing in this snow pile."

She inspected one of the books Vinye had left for her, turned it around, and put it back on the table with a grunt that quickly turned into a monstrous yawn. "Oh, forget it," she said, half to herself. "I'm too tired to memorize anything anyway."

She turned to Malys. "Oh, before I forget," she said. "I don't say this to just anyone—and if I hear anyone else talk about it to me, I'm going to deny it to my death." She took a deep breath, like she was being forced to swallow frostbite venom. "It's good to know a friendly face around here."

Malys smiled and shrugged to herself. _I suppose that's about as much as I'll get_. "Same to you … _Cozy_."

Later on, she would admit that it was worth it to see Cosette whirl around at her as fast as she did—and doubly so to see the hard lines of anger on her doughy face slowly melt into the more subtle curves of an appreciative smile.

"They don't make people like you every era, _Mistress_ Malys," she replied, emphasizing the word "Mistress" with mock servility. "You'll part of a rare breed."

Her smile widened. "Let's hope it doesn't go extinct."

Malys kept on smiling in spite of the veiled threat. "Good night, Cosette," she said to the first real, if rather unexpected, friend she'd made since she'd arrived in Skyrim.

Cosette grunted, and shifted into her covers a little more. She was snoring loudly within minutes.

Malys, on the other hand, had had trouble getting to sleep for as long as she could remember, and it was several hours—or, by her reckoning, a half-dozen more books read cover-to-cover by Vinye—before she finally fell asleep. Her last thought before she finally fell asleep was that she should've had a pint to drink at the Frozen Hearth, as she was feeling rather thirsty.

* * *

_Jarl's Longhouse, Winterhold_

"Thorvald? Thorvald!"

The former Stormcloak-turned-commander of the town guard was unpleasantly roused from his sleep by the shout. "Talos' sake, what is it, Gretta?"

"It's about the bodies Yngmar found on the road earlier," said the fair-haired woman at the foot of his cot. "There's something you need to see."

Cursing Dibella and her priests for teasing his dreams so, the dark-haired Nord put on his armor and mail as quickly as he could, then crossed the length of the longhouse to the Jarl's war room.

Of the three occupants currently occupying the chamber, only one was among the living—another Nord like Gretta and Thorvald, but darker-skinned and completely bald. The other two were a pale bluish-gray from a combination of cold and death, and were mostly covered in dirty linen sheets.

"This had better be good, Yngmar," Thorvald said irritably.

"If only it was," Yngmar remarked. He sounded very unnerved, and was talking in a very animated manner, throwing his arms every which way. "We just finished thawing them out a few minutes ago. There's hardly any blood from their wounds, and at first I thought the snow might've soaked it all up. But then I got a closer look at their faces."

He pulled back a sheet, exposing one of the bodies. "See for yourself."

Thorvald did.

" … Kynareth save us," he said ten seconds later, when he'd managed to get his breath back. He replaced the sheet with a whitened, trembling hand.

"What now?" Yngmar asked. Gretta looked fearful.

"We need to get word to Jarl Korir right now," Thorvald said. "Is he still in Whiterun?"

Gretta nodded. "Aye. Assur's with him, too. Wasn't enough for the boy to be Jarl after his father; now he wants to join the Companions."

Thorvald tore off a piece of linen, and started scribbling on it with a piece of charcoal for a few seconds. When he was done, he thrust the scrap to Yngmar like it was on fire. "Send for a courier," he ordered. "Have him deliver this to Korir personally—Jarl's eyes only, understand?"

Yngmar saluted, and sprinted out of the longhouse.

"Gretta," Thorvald continued, "go to the Jarl's wife. Put together a squad and escort Thaena to Whiterun. Actually—" The commander of the Winterhold guard stopped to think for a moment. Was it worth going to _them_ over a pair of cooling bodies?

… Yes, he decided. They could worry about cost and benefit afterward, but right now, he couldn't risk taking any chances. There might not be much of a Winterhold to protect, but dammit, there was still a Winterhold. And so long as Thorvald remained guard commander, he'd _make sure_ it was protected.

"Actually, Gretta, I need you to send for another courier before you do that. There's someone who specializes in exactly the sort of situation this could turn into if we're not careful. He's _ex-Legion_"—he said this as though it caused him great physical pain—"but no one in Skyrim's better equipped for this than he is."

"Escort Thaena, send for a specialist." Gretta ticked off two fingers. "What should I tell them? It won't be easy to persuade Thaena to leave Winterhold, and this specialist sounds like some kind of mercenary to me."

Thorvald's face was grim as he reached for another scrap of linen to write on. "Tell them we have vampires."

* * *

_Next chapter: On the road to Rkund, J'zargo relates many tales of his friends and past exploits, and Malys reveals something very unpleasant. Meanwhile, someone in Winterhold is asking very strange questions._


	3. II

**A/N: There is a section of this chapter that contains numerous but minor grammatical errors. These are a stylistic choice I wanted to try out, and are therefore intentional, along with any such passages in the future.**

**Apologies in advance for any confusion. This one was ****_really_**** tough for me to write. Hope you enjoy! - K**

II

The Hall of Attainment was drafty, and the constant howling of the wind made it tough for anyone to have a decent night's sleep. But the beds were more than comfortable enough to make up for that, Malys thought; she couldn't remember the last time she'd slept as well as she did.

She wished it could have lasted longer. Unfortunately, J'zargo had decided to shake Malys awake so vigorously that even now—as she, Vinye and Cosette descended the ramp and into Winterhold proper—she was nursing a small crick in her neck. The Altmer and the Breton hadn't fared any better, by the looks of it; Vinye looked more alert than Malys had seen her last night, but she still noticeably winced every time she turned her head. Cosette, on the other hand, hadn't stopped muttering curses under her breath since they'd left the College, and was massaging her neck so forcefully that it looked like she was kneading dough.

"I hate cats," Malys heard her say more than once.

J'zargo, merrily unaware of Cosette's grumblings, had taken the lead ahead of the trio, and was strutting along with such gusto that he might have just been appointed thane of the entire hold. Tolfdir brought up the rear, humming "Ragnar the Red" to himself absentmindedly.

"Wait," Malys said suddenly, as they passed Birna's Oddments.

"Is something wrong, my dear?" Tolfdir asked.

"I need to stop inside for a few things, that's all." And with that, the Dunmer ducked inside the general store, and reemerged ten minutes later wearing a suit of elven armor that looked like it had seen better days. The dull _chink-chink _of many potions clattering against one another sounded from her backpack with every step she took.

"You can't be too careful in Skyrim," she explained to the group, as she wrapped a traveling cloak over her armored body and backpack, pulling the oversized hood over her short black hair. "The other night, I got attacked by bandits not five feet away from where we're standing right now." She indicated a patch of snow with her thumb.

"Ah, so that's why you were hurt," Tolfdir said. Malys gave a sheepish smile back at him.

"It was dumb luck, was all," she shrugged. "They had a good bit of gold with them, too. That's how I was able to pay for most of this stuff." She patted her backpack.

"Still, you can't assume bandits will just roll over for you before they take your money," Vinye admonished her, her voice muffled by her own bulky cloak. It was the first time Malys had heard her speak today; the high elf had risen from her bunk without a word, proceeded to cram as many books as she could into the rucksack slung over her shoulder, and been the first to leave the grounds after Tolfdir and J'zargo. "If you aren't the one to make the first move, you won't live to make the second move."

"Speaking of moving," Cosette interjected, still a little irritable, "can we get a move on and head to this Dwarven ruin before I freeze my sword arm off?"

There was a general murmur of assent; though Malys couldn't help but glance at the Breton's choice for winter clothing. She had eschewed a traveling cloak, substituting it for fur-and-leather wraps around her arms and legs that looked crude, but definitely thick enough to protect them from the wintry weather. A small, magical fire was crackling merrily in Cosette's left hand as well, giving off heat that Malys could feel even from fifteen feet away.

"You heard the lady—on to adventure!" Tolfdir said as boisterously as only a Nord could, attracting a few scattered laughs from the rest of the group, J'zargo's loudest among them.

* * *

Adventure, Malys decided some time later, was highly overrated.

Last night's storm had forced most of the wildlife back into their dens, though they came across the occasional fox foraging for snowberries, racing across the road in a blur of white fur. Once or twice, however, they encountered a few wolves, though well-aimed firebolts from Tolfdir and J'zargo had sent them scrabbling through the snow with their tails between their legs. Other than this, there was nothing to suggest that their expedition to Rkund was going to start off as anything resembling "adventurous." Indeed, no one even said a word over the wind until after Winterhold had already disappeared behind the group; by then, the sun was high in the sky, and the clouds were beginning to clear.

The road veered to the right, now, running west towards the towers of an imposing-looking military fort. The snowdrifts to the south of the group, on the other hand, looked deep but passable. The eroded stone ruins of an old Nordic structure were visible in the distance. Much further beyond those was the faintest hint of a ship's furled sail.

"The old Nords certainly loved their stonework," J'zargo commented, indicating the ruins. "That is Snow Veil Sanctum. J'zargo has heard tales of the treasures within these tombs. But the locks on this tomb are strong, he has heard. No one can pick them, not even J'zargo. At least," he added, "no one who has come back alive."

Malys had heard about the burial crypts of the ancient Nords, and the Draugr who still walked the catacombs within, and silently thanked Azura for good craftsmanship. That was one thing she could respect the Nords for, at least.

Tolfdir pointed at the sail in the distance. "That looks like the docks for Windhelm," he noted.

J'zargo pondered this. "If we could cut through here, we could take much time off our journey," he said, stroking his mustache. "Plenty more Dwarven trinkets for J'zargo to find that way, yes?"

"I've no doubt about that," Tolfdir laughed.

"I don't think that's a good idea," Malys said suddenly. Everyone turned to look at her. "The shortcut would take us too close to Windhelm," the dark elf explained. "They don't like magic in there."

Tolfdir tsk-tsked. "Oh, come now, my dear," he chided, "I've made the trip to Windhelm quite a few times in my day, and I've never gotten so much as a cold shoulder from the city guards there."

Malys was in no mood to argue or to show due courtesy right now. "You're a Nord," she said tersely. "I'm a Dunmer. Maybe you should remember that the next time you go through the Gray Quarter."

Tolfdir's wrinkled face drooped a little as Malys' words sank in. "Oh … Oh, I'm terribly sorry, miss," he said, fumbling over his words in genuine sympathy. "I … should have realized … I didn't mean to offend you at all."

Malys sighed. "I understand," she said, deflating a little. "I just—I had a bad experience in Windhelm when I was younger." Seeing Tolfdir's curious look, she hastily added, "I'd … rather not talk about it right now, if that's okay."

Tolfdir immediately nodded. "Of course, my dear. Far be it from me to bring up an old ghost."

Malys' decision was not entirely by choice. It had felt so long ago, she thought, and so hard had Malys tried to forget the incident that much of the circumstances and details had been lost to her. But even if she lived to be a thousand years old, she would never forget the raw, ugly rage that she had had to face that night.

_… Go back under the ash where you belong! …_

_… Get away from my children, you gray-skin slut! …_

_… Gonna poison you in your sleep, stinking elf! …_

"Ghosts be damned," Cosette was saying as Malys pulled herself back to Mundus with some difficulty. "If we follow the road, it'll be nighttime before we reach Windhelm."

"And Skyrim is more dangerous at night than it is during the day," Vinye agreed.

"J'zargo?" Tolfdir turned to the Khajiit. "What do you think we should do?"

J'zargo peered once towards the fort in the west, frowning. Then, turning back, he scanned the snowy fields before them, holding a paw in front of his eyes to shield them from the glare of the sun. He sniffed the air once, twice, and three times before he finally nodded.

"J'zargo sees nothing he cannot handle," he said confidently.

And on that note, he began to navigate a path through the snowdrifts with purpose in every step. Cosette and Vinye, then Tolfdir, and finally Malys followed him.

It seemed to take an impossibly long time to traverse it all, and the wind blowing in from the east was not helping matters at all. The descent only got more treacherous when the snowdrifts turned into large masses of icy rock. Everyone, even J'zargo, managed to slip on the rocks at least once; Vinye had even needed some restorative attention from Tolfdir on one occasion. Yet slowly but surely, Snow Veil Sanctum was growing larger before their eyes, and before long, the five mages felt smooth, carved stone beneath their boots.

Tolfdir called for a few minutes' rest. Before he'd finished talking, Cosette had plopped down with a grunt against a Nordic totem, next to a large metal grate over a wide pipe that stretched down into darkness. A wild rabbit had run across their way while they climbed the rocks, and a well-timed burst of magical flame from Cosette's hand had provided the first potential meal of the journey. After she had borrowed J'zargo's dagger to skin the rabbit, Cosette promptly began roasting it with her flames again, and she had already wrenched off one of its haunches to eat.

Suddenly, J'zargo leapt to his feet, slitted eyes bright and round as flawless diamonds. "Everyone, up!" he ordered.

So urgent was his tone that even the hungry Cosette obeyed him without a moment's hesitation—and not a moment too soon; an unpleasant smell had invaded the ruin, a mixture of decaying flesh and a military latrine that made Malys sick to her stomach. Their source wasn't far behind; three wide, misshapen forms, almost perfectly camouflaged against the snow, were lumbering towards them with primal ferocity in every step.

"Trolls!" Vinye shouted. Immediately, blue-white sparks danced around her hands, and she sent off one lightning bolt, then another. Both bolts hit the leftmost troll in the hip; it stumbled, but this only seemed to make the three-eyed hulk even madder. It roared in aggravation, beating cauldron-sized fists against its hairy chest.

_Make the first move, indeed_, Malys thought.

Cosette had seemed to forget that she was hungry, or that she was a mage; she was swinging away at a second troll with a bizarre-looking object that Malys could only guess was some kind of weapon. The troll, for its part, was matching her blow for blow, but Cosette was slowly winning; not only was she dodging and blocking any attacks from the troll's heavy claws, but a steady stream of fire from her other hand was burning it alive. A few seconds later, the monster collapsed at her feet with a final, grunting roar, and lay still.

_One down._

Meanwhile, the stench of the trolls was quickly being replaced with the acrid odor of Vinye's lightning magic as she continued to pelt her target with one bolt after another. Malys could see a pulsing blue aura around her body; high elves could naturally regenerate their magickal reserves so quickly, she knew, that the effect was actually visible to the trained eye, which further explained why Vinye was able to survive on the offensive for as long as she had. But the troll wasn't even being slowed by Vinye's relentless assault; now catching up to her, it lashed out with a massive backhand, and caught the Altmer right in her lung. A winded Vinye spun once on her feet from the force of the impact, and tumbled into the snow.

"Vinye!" Malys called out. Knowing it probably wouldn't do much good, Malys made a half-fist, built up some magic in her hand, and expelled a blue-white burst of ice as long and wide as her forearm. The troll, who was just about to finish off Vinye with a piledriver to the chest, caught the ice spike directly in the middle of its three eyes.

Almost immediately afterward, there was a flash of orange light directly in front of Malys, and a massive BOOM ripped through the air. There was a disgusting stench of burning hair and flesh. It didn't take long for Malys to figure out why: a charred, gaping hole had opened up in the troll's chest. The brute only just seemed to realize this when it tilted its ugly, bearded head down to see what had happened, and then it toppled over, dead as a doornail.

_Two down._

Malys turned to look behind and to her left, where the blast of fire had come from, and saw J'zargo with an outstretched, smoking paw and a cocky, lopsided grin on his furry face. "The trolls do not like fire," J'zargo explained to Malys, not bothering to disguise his glee. "But Khajiit _loves_ his incineration spells, yes he does."

Malys arched her eyebrows in grudging admiration. _ Expert-level fire magic? I guess the little n'wah wasn't lying after all._

Tolfdir, in the meantime, had engaged the remaining troll in a spectacular battle between magic and muscle. The old man, who had surrounded himself in a cloak of whirling fire, was constantly ducking and weaving the troll's erratic swings, and in the interim, chipping away at him with the occasional firebolt.

It was truly mesmerizing to see, Malys admitted, to see a master wizard of Winterhold going toe-to-clawed-toe with such a creature. Though she'd known the man only briefly, she could already tell he practiced what he preached. Nothing was exaggerated in Tolfdir's movements, no magicka wasted in his attacks—this was "true control."

Malys saw Tolfdir step off to her right, and immediately saw an opening. She readied another ice spike, and then rushed forward. If she could make a closer shot, maybe she could get lucky and catch it in the eyes a second time.

She fired. Immediately, she could tell she wouldn't need her eyes to track the path of her attack—she already knew the ice spike's aim would be straight and true.

She also knew, however, that she'd fired only _one_ ice spike, and so Malys was momentarily confused when she saw no less than _four_ frozen missiles impale the troll in its head, chest and shoulders. The four attacks together achieved what one alone could not, and so great was their combined power that the troll was lifted off its feet, and propelled into a snowbank thirty feet behind it.

But Malys had no time to glory in her sudden stroke of luck. She had just noticed the sudden chill crawling up her spine—no, not just her spine; her arms, her _entire body_ was slowly getting colder and colder and _colder—_

And even before she turned around to see the thing behind her, she knew her luck was about to turn for the worse.

A long time ago, it might have been beautiful. From a distance, it certainly was—as graceful as the trolls had been crude. But Malys was just far enough away to appreciate that, yet close enough to see the dozens of serrated teeth in the ethereal humanoid's mouth. Naked save for tatters of thin clothing around its body, the strange creature regarded Malys with an inquisitive, almost childlike expression, floating mere inches above the snow.

Then it screamed—an inhuman shriek that instinctively made Malys clap her hands around her ears in pain—and charged for the elf.

Just as the thing raised its hand to perform another deadly spell, Malys was unceremoniously shoved aside by Cosette. Turning to rebuke the Breton, the diatribe died on Malys' lips when she saw that Cosette, too, was glowing—but rather than the pulsing blue from Vinye, hers was more of a shimmering bluish-white. It wasn't just from the ward she'd erected around her, either; a small cocoon of distortion surrounded her body, and somehow, Malys didn't think the ward had anything to do with it.

She had no idea what it was, but judging from how the ice attacks from the ghostly monster before Cosette seemed to flicker and dispel before her eyes, she suspected it was more than a ward, but some kind of absorption spell as well. That was very rare indeed, Malys thought—she'd never remembered seeing any spell or enchantment like that. Perhaps it was a special trait of the Ionsaithe clan, or—

"Don't just stand there—heal me!" Cosette barked at Malys, her right hand blasting away at the creature with firebolt after firebolt. "Heal me!" she said again, as a few tiny shards broke through her ward, ripping into her skin. "That attack's too strong for my ward, and I can't take the full brunt of it forever!"

Malys waited another few dangerous seconds to clear her head, and then fired the same restoration spell she'd used on Faralda at Cosette. The effect was immediate; the shards of ice that had made it through the double ward and were embedded inside Cosette's flesh melted away, and the wounds they left were resealed within seconds.

By now, J'zargo, Tolfdir, and Vinye (still a little dazed from the troll's attack) had joined in to lend a hand. With one final incineration spell from J'zargo, the entity opened its toothy maw in one last, silent cry, and finally exploded in a burst of fine ash and sickly green light.

After drinking some essence of elves ear and white cap to replenish her magicka, Malys turned back to the pile of ash with an incredulous look on her face. "What in Azura's name _was_ that thing?" she asked.

"A wispmother," J'zargo said, looking unusually rattled. "An ancient spirit of the frozen lands. J'zargo only saw one of them in his life until today—he had convinced his friends there was _only_ the one." He sighed. "But even a powerful mage like J'zargo still has much to learn, it seems."

"No kidding," said Cosette, wiping flecks of her blood off her sealed wounds and replacing the "sword" back under her robes. Now that Malys could see it better, she could see triangular points of sharpened ivory lashed with thick leather to a length of wood. It was the most ridiculous-looking sword she had ever seen—and yet, something about it told Malys that she did not want to be on the other end of such a brutal-looking weapon.

"What _is_ that?" she asked.

Cosette followed her eyes down to the weapon, and grimaced. "It's a Forsworn blade," she answered. "Nasty piece of work, isn't it? But it was nothing compared to the maniac who used it."

"Forsworn?"

"Group of tribal Bretons in the Reach. Some say they're terrorists, others say they're freedom fighters—and _I_ say the _less_ said about them, the _better_," Cosette said emphatically.

Her round face brightened a little. "By the way," she added, "thanks for covering me back there."

"Thanks," Malys said. "Is this the part where you tell me I owe you one?" she added only half-jokingly. Cosette, however, wore an expression that did not suggest any joking whatsoever.

"Don't start on that," the Breton sighed irritably. Clearly she had not heard this for the first time. "I'm not saying I don't appreciate what you did, Malys, but don't expect me to start relying on you lot for backup, either. I've spent more time away from people than I have _with_—and if I'm honest, I work better that way."

_Well, thanks for nothing_, Malys thought.

Before she could object any further, Cosette had turned away from her. "We should keep moving," she remarked to the group. "Still a ways to go before we reach Windhelm."

J'zargo and Tolfdir looked at each other. "She has a point," the old man agreed. "The things a man can run into during the night … "

"This one agrees," the Khajiit said. He was still smiling, but the euphoria of the ambush was beginning to wear off—and it showed in the form of a tired yawn. "Although—_unnh_—although J'zargo was right, yes?" J'zargo added, after failing to conceal his fatigue.

"What do you mean?" Vinye asked, frowning.

"J'zargo did not see anything he could not handle."

It took the three novices a moment for J'zargo's words to sink in. Malys would have been angry, but the fact that the five mages had just taken down a whole den's worth of trolls and a Tribunal-damned _wispmother_ almost balanced it out—_almost_. She therefore settled for burying her face in her hand and groaning at the antics of the Khajiit. Vinye looked rather annoyed—but Cosette was beside herself.

"You mean you knew about these things?!" she screeched at J'zargo. "Are you saying we could have avoided all this if we'd just taken the road around?!"

J'zargo shrugged. "Perhaps," he said. "But if you had the chance to do so again, would you?"

Cosette opened her mouth, and stopped—evidently she was coming to the same conclusion Malys had. She raised a finger, then lowered it, and finally gave a frustrated sigh.

"I really, _really_ _hate_ cats," she snarled, and aimed a kick at the snow. "Let's just … let's just go before I decide I need a new fur coat."

On that sour note, the group continued their journey south. Malys clung further back to Tolfdir and J'zargo now; she did not want to be anywhere within reach of Cosette, spell or sword—somehow she doubted mere elven craftsmanship would stand up for long against either.

"I think you could have handled that better, my boy," she heard Tolfdir remark sorrowfully.

"Do not be so quick to accuse," J'zargo said. "This is merely the first step—the same step we took with Onmund and Brelyna when—"

"Mmm … yes. I remember Savos gave you four what for after what happened in Saarthal," Tolfdir said. "How you rushed in after me, deliberately disobeying me, just because you thought I might be in trouble." He chuckled nostalgically. "I never did properly thank you all for your concern, my lad."

"Nor do you need to," J'zargo smiled.

Malys frowned. Was this why J'zargo had elected to come along—simply because he'd been in their shoes before? She looked at the Khajiit, strutting about again like before—though this time, Malys felt he had a reason to. Khajiit weren't well known for excellence in magic, and yet J'zargo had progressed so far …

For some reason, Malys found that extremely uplifting on her spirits, so much so that everyone else, even Cosette, wondered why she was humming merrily all the way to Windhelm.

* * *

When they reached the docks at sunset, though, Malys' good mood had evaporated as quickly as it had come.

_That's more guards than I remember_, she thought, as she looked at what had to be a full dozen Stormcloaks in full armor patrolling the docks. The only others on the dock apart from ships' mates were a handful of Argonians; these reptilian folk were dockworkers, forced to live outside the city in a separate building—even the dark elves had more than that. It was a bitter dose of irony—the Argonian invasion of Morrowind had made Malys distrustful of their kind, though certainly not to the extent of those thrice-cursed Nords.

Instinctively, she pulled her hood lower over her face, and willed herself to shrink further into her armor. How long it had been since that day, she'd lost track. Nords weren't always the brightest candles in the hall, but Malys couldn't be too careful—with her luck, one of the guards would be smart enough to recognize her.

_The sooner we move on, the better._

Besides the city proper, there was only one other way through to the rest of Eastmarch hold—and that was the mouth of the White River. It was a short swim to the other bank, but with how bitter cold Windhelm was, there was no telling how chilly the water would be. Tolfdir was already passing around a bottle of frost mirriam and crushed snowberry he'd concocted earlier, which he had said would help protect against the cold water. Her portion of the potion tingled on her tongue, which Malys found inexplicably delightful, and she instantly felt warmer—and dare she say it, stronger—even as the last rays of the sun sank beneath the horizon.

Quickly, before the effects of the potion wore off, Malys jumped into the river. Instead of the water being deathly cold, the potion had warmed Malys enough to where she merely found it a little brisk. It was oddly refreshing after the skirmish of earlier today, and she had to fight the urge to linger behind everyone else and enjoy it.

Just as she felt the water beginning to get colder, the other side of the river came into view. A few seconds later, Malys had surfaced with a deep breath—

—that promptly choked in her throat when she saw the Stormcloak directly in front of her, hand rested on a highly polished steel sword. She barely managed to turn her cry of surprise into a hacking cough.

"That's why you don't go swimming in the White River, elf," said the guard disapprovingly. "'Specially not this time of day. Freeze the points of your ears off, you will."

Malys nodded, pulling her hood so far forward her entire face was almost concealed. "Sorry. I … I didn't feel like taking the long way around." _Please don't know who I am, please don't know who I am—_

The guard grunted. "There's a reason we have roads," he said brusquely to her and the other mages, who had hurried over to catch up with Malys. "Common sense—that's the only school that matters. We didn't have that, we'd all jump in the lake like you lot."

He turned around to resume his patrol. "You mages keep your noses clean while you're here, hear?"

"Hear, hear … damn Nords," Cosette said out of his earshot, not noticing Malys slump her shoulders and exhale in relief. "You'd think things would've changed after Ulfric got what he deserved."

"I … take it you supported the Empire?" Vinye asked hesitantly.

"I don't particularly like them, either," Cosette groused. "I just think everyone was a bunch of idiots for fighting such a pointless war."

"They fought for what they believed in," shrugged Vinye. "If I was a Legionnaire, that would be point enough for me. If you had a reason to fight in a war, would you?"

Silence.

"Cosette?"

The Breton didn't answer. Her pale face had turned unusually dark, but it was more brooding rather than threatening. At any rate, it made Malys uneasy, and she directed a glance toward Vinye, indicating that it might be best not to bother Cosette further about the subject. The Altmer furrowed her brow briefly, but nodded in reply.

They passed a few more Stormcloak patrols in silence before they reached the tiny settlement of Kynesgrove, but they were just far enough away that Malys did not need to worry about her being discovered. Still, the events of the day had taken their toll on her, and no sooner had she paid for a room at the Braidwood Inn and a pint of ale than she promptly collapsed on her bed. She had no recollection of falling asleep.

* * *

_Jarl's Longhouse, Winterhold_

A burly fist pounded on the door to the guard barracks. "Thorvald!"

The captain of the guard was more easily roused today than yesterday. "What is it, Yngmar?"

Yngmar pointed a thumb to the door outside. "Some priest here for you. Says he's here on account of our little problem from the other night."

"Then what in Stendarr's name is he doing outside?" Thorvald grunted. "Get him in here now—before we end up with another body to thaw!"

Not bothering to salute, Yngmar disappeared for a moment. When he came back a moment later, it was with a man in a simple yellow cassock. Beneath the hood, Thorvald could see a sizable grayish-white beard. The elder's left hand, surprisingly muscular in spite of its owner's age, rested on the hilt of a sword that—even through the thick cloth of his robes—glowed with a hundred candles' worth of light, which was a hundred candles more than enough to make Thorvald nervous.

"Lucius Anglinius," said the man. His voice was not at all the reedy wheeze Thorvald had been expecting; rather, it was loud and clear as his old war horn, and invited about as much debate. It also had an unmistakable Cyrodiilic accent, which made the Nord even more anxious—even though he had accepted that even someone ex-Legion was most likely an Imperial as well. "You have vampires, Captain."

It was not a question. "Aye," Thorvald answered tersely. "Right this way." He led the Imperial to the war room, where the bodies had been closely guarded since yesterday.

"Two of them, just showed up on the outskirts of town," he explained. "We can only guess why they were here—aside from creating more of their kind," he added in a growl. "They didn't get very far—both were dead by the time we found them in the snow."

He reached the bodies in question, and pulled back the linen wraps that covered their naked bodies.

The old man, meanwhile, had lowered his hood to reveal his balding head, and two snow-white eyes that took Thorvald aback. _He's blind as a Falmer_, he mused. _How in the Nine did he find his way here? He can't have come on horseback—we don't have stables anymore!_ Just to be sure, he listened outside for whinnies and plodding hooves, but heard none.

Lucius was now hovering his left hand over one of the vampires. It was emitting a bright, warm light not unlike the one that seemed to come from his sword. Every few seconds or so, he would grunt to himself, nod, or otherwise make some sort of affirmation.

Then, finally, he stood back. "Just as I thought," he said. "Volkihar."

The word sent shivers through the guards present. Volkihar vampires were the most dangerous of their kind known to live in Skyrim. It was said they made their homes inside the frozen north, and could move through solid ice like it was water.

"How can you tell?" Thorvald asked, before he could stop himself.

Lucius chuckled darkly. "You think me a blind fool, Nord? I am not a fool, and neither am I blind. I merely do not require _your_ light to see the truth laid bare before me."

Thorvald was confused. Our _light?_

"Sanguinare Vampiris is endemic to the Volkihar clan, and by extension, endemic to Skyrim," Lucius explained. "Though Poryphilic Hemophilia is much more common, it is seen mainly in my homeland, and rarely in Morrowind since the Argonians invaded. Neither clan would have much reason to venture so far to the north of Tamriel."

Despite his prejudice, Thorvald was impressed. _He's certainly done his homework—and he's blind to boot. We could learn a thing or two from priests like him._

"But there are two things that disturb me," Lucius continued, stroking his beard. "One is that these vampires died in battle. They attempted to heal their wounds with their foul blood magic, but the scars yet remain." He stroked a gloved finger across the chest of the vampire before him. "Magically inflicted wounds, it seems—and judging from the extent of the scarring, I would surmise that these vampires were killed by ice magic."

Yngmar's ruddy face brightened. "Gretta!" he called to the woman outside the war room. "Didn't the College take in a new novice the night these vampires showed up?"

Gretta thought for a moment. "I … don't—wait, I think they might have! You're saying that novice was able to kill these two vampires?"

"Mm, that's the other thing that worries me—Volkihar vampires never travel alone, but most often they travel in groups of three." Lucius' voice was grim. "Which begs the question: why are there only _two_ bodies here?"

The war room seemed to get a little colder as the implications of his words sank in.

"I must go to the College," Lucius said abruptly to Thorvald. "You no longer need me here. Bolster your nightly patrols, Captain. No one enters or leaves Winterhold without your knowledge. If you think them a vampire, detain them and inform me posthaste. Make sure you are _absolutely thorough_ in your findings before you do so—better to detain one vampire than to detain a hundred innocent citizens."

Thorvald's head was spinning with all the orders. "You're asking me to do all that? Why?"

"Because Winterhold was not the first time."

There was a pregnant silence. "What?" Gretta asked.

"There's been two attacks on citizens in Solitude, and a third in Dawnstar," said Lucius. "All of them occurred over this past week. All of them occurred at night. And I can say with certainty that all the attacks were instigated by vampires." He paused to regard the effect of his words on the Nords. "The Volkihar have been growing bolder in their actions of late—and I aim to know to what end."

He unsheathed his glowing sword; Thorvald now saw that the light from under his robes was coming from an orb located where the grip met the blade. "I suggest you stand back," Lucius said shortly, turning the blade downward, angling it right at the heart of the vampire before him, and bringing it down with surprising strength.

There was an explosion of bright blue light, a rushing sound, and a rapidly expanding wall of deep blue fire that knocked Thorvald and the rest of the unprepared guards flat on their backs. When they managed to get back up a few seconds later, they saw that both bodies had been reduced to neat little piles of ash.

"What manner of blade is that?" exclaimed Yngmar. "Such power … "

"More to the point, what manner of _priest_ are _you_?" said Thorvald accusingly. "Arkay's followers are rarely so armed."

Lucius chuckled as he walked to the door leading out to Winterhold. "I venerate Arkay with all the respect that he and the rest of the _Eight_ Divines deserve," he said, emphasizing the number with blatant condescension. "But no, I do not worship him outright."

He opened the door. "I have pledged my life and service to Meridia," he said, zeal in his voice. "Through her and her token, the Dawnbreaker, I make sure that the dead and buried of Mundus _stay_ dead and buried _in_ Mundus."

With this declaration, Lucius departed the longhouse, leaving behind two very confused-looking Nords and a commander who, reluctant as he was to admit it to his compatriots, was now very, very uneasy.

_So not only is he a Daedra worshipper_, Thorvald thought, gritting his teeth, _he's a _fanatic_ Daedra worshipper. Wonderful—just what Skyrim needed._

"I'm not alone in this, am I?" Gretta wondered out loud. "In thinking that priest is going to spell trouble?"

"He's two pints short of a barrel of mead," Yngmar remarked, "but damned if he hasn't got the fire to match. If you're going to worry, Gretta, then worry at least about that vampire—assuming it's still out there, anyway."

Gretta laughed. "Heh—if that sword can turn a dead vampire to ash, then I'd like to see what it could do to an _undead_ vampire!"

Thorvald, for his part, remained stoic. "I wish I had your confidence," he said softly. "I really do."

* * *

_Eastmarch_

The following morning saw Tolfdir, J'zargo, and the three novices setting out from Kynesgrove. They elected to stay on the road this time, so as not to encounter any more unwelcome threats (J'zargo had accepted this with some displeasure, but ultimately agreed).

They had also taken their time before leaving the inn; Malys was not the only one who had had something to drink before turning in for the night. But of the five, she was certainly the worst off; her stomach had not taken well to the ale at all, and even now, she was still tremendously tired. Most of the cause for the delay—and for her fatigue—had been due to have to clean up the mess of ale and vomit she'd made. It turned out that the proprietor of the Braidwood Inn had seen this a few times in his day—but then again, as the barman had angrily reminded Malys, they'd all had the decency not to throw up onto their bedspreads.

"Give me some sujamma any day of the week," she yawned.

The weather in Eastmarch was far more pleasant than in Winterhold. There were only a few clouds in the sky, and the wind was soothing rather than biting. Cosette loved it; she was acting so exuberantly that if it wasn't for the events of last night, Malys might have suspected they'd switched bodies somehow. That someone who was willing to kill without hesitation could act so joyfully was, in her opinion, even more unsettling than her normal mood.

"It reminds me of home," she explained to the Dunmer when Malys asked. "I lived in Markarth for a few years. I remember I'd always want to visit the Dwarven ruins under the city. The guards would never let us in, though."

"Speaking of Dwarven ruins," Tolfdir spoke up, "have a look over there." He pointed eastward with his finger, towards the cliffs in the distance.

Malys could barely see it through the trees, but there it was; the unmistakable combination of weathered gray stone carved to perfect smoothness, and gilded bronze metal, expertly crafted and fitted into the sculpted rock.

"That is Mzulft," J'zargo said. "J'zargo was inside those ruins not long ago."

"Not by yourself, I hope," Vinye said. "Those guards kept you out of the ruins for a reason, Cosette. The Dwemer may be gone, but they left a lot more behind than those machines of theirs."

"Khajiit are never alone, even when they appear to be," smiled J'zargo. "There were four of us who entered the ruins then. Perhaps you would like to hear about J'zargo's friends? He was much like you once, you know."

"Oh, this I have to hear," Cosette remarked.

"There was Brelyna Maryon," J'zargo said, ticking his claws off one by one. "Ah, you know the name, then?" he said at Malys' expression of recognition. "She comes from the line of the Telvanni wizards. Very clever elves, they were—more clever even than this one.

"Then there was Onmund. The Nords may not like magic, and neither did his family. But neither does a Nord back down from a challenge. And we saw many challenges in our time.

"And finally"—J'zargo's grin grew wider—"there was the Dragonborn."

As if to provide a dramatic moment, a strange sound, like a great beast roaring far off in the distance, echoed through the air.

Cosette scoffed. "That's a tall tale, even for you," she said skeptically.

"And you're saying _you_ know something about the Dragonborn?" Malys retorted.

"I know enough about those old Nord legends," said Cosette. "That, and the _big scaly monsters_ coming back for no other reason at all was a pretty big hint. But the Dragonborn doesn't need a place like the College. That kind of power isn't something you can just learn from a book."

Vinye nodded sagely. Tolfdir and J'zargo exchanged glances, and the old Nord cleared his throat. "Actually, Miss Ionsaithe, ever since the Dragonborn came to Winterhold, we've been in talks with High Hrothgar, where it just so happens 'that kind of power' is studied."

"Onmund is there now," added J'zargo. "Ever since the Dragonborn's return, he had hopes of being able to study and speak the Voice, and perhaps match him one day. It was not easy for the Greybeards to accept his plea—and J'zargo still does not know how or why—but they did."

"So he's not a student at the College anymore?" Vinye asked.

"In a sense, he still is," Toldfir said. "Students at Winterhold are essentially free to come and go as they please. We're not as structured as most institutions of magic in Tamriel—the Arch-Mages, both past and present, have long believed in a hands-off approach to education. They like to let the mages learn for themselves, you see."

"What about Brelyna?" Malys wanted to know. "If she's part of House Telvanni, she must be in Morrowind, I'm guessing."

"Oh, not all the time," Tolfdir answered. "The last time we spoke was a few years ago. She hoped to study under the Telvanni masters—family tradition, I'd imagine. At least one of them lives in Solstheim—a wizard by the name of Neloth. Our illusion master, Drevis Neloren, went with her—J'zargo has been doing a masterful job in his stead."

The Khajiit gave a little bow.

"They've expressed hopes to recolonize the mainland of Morrowind after everything that's happened over there," Tolfdir continued. "They send letters every so often, and things seem to be going rather well so far."

"That's nice of them," Malys said. "And what about this Dragonborn, then? What does a hero of prophecy have left to do once his prophecy is fulfilled?"

J'zargo was about to answer, but then an arrow thwacked into his hip.

As the Khajiit yowled in pain, everyone else sprang into action. Malys whirled to the west, where the arrow had come from. Bandits—four of them, from a campsite near the cliff. Three of them were rushing towards them, swords drawn and yelling battle cries. A fourth held back, and were already nocking more arrows.

"Stay behind me!" called Tolfdir. J'zargo herded the other mages behind the Master Wizard as best he could.

Quick as a flash, Tolfdir fired a lightning bolt at the lead thug. The attack hit the robber's broadsword, disintegrating it into lethal shards that ripped into the luckless Redguard's body. The hilt flew out of his hand, catching Malys in the leg and causing her to stumble. A second lightning bolt, this one from Vinye, caught the wounded bandit right in the chest, killing him instantly.

Cosette grit her teeth as another arrow found its mark, this time in her shoulder. She responded by unleashing two firebolts in rapid succession towards the archer. The woman evaded one with ease, but this put her in the path of the other. Her unprotected face took the full brunt of the blast, and she toppled off the cliff.

Malys, meanwhile, was doing her best to duck and weave the battleaxe of the Nord in front of her. The outlaw's charge had been so unexpected that her ice magic had hit nothing but air, so wildly had she been flailing about. Now, with her magicka depleted and no time to drink any of her potions, Malys could feel her heartbeat beginning to accelerate, and her vision was rapidly beginning to blur.

"You grayskins don't belong here!" bellowed the Nord. "Skyrim belongs to—"

Exactly who Skyrim belonged to, the Nord didn't have time to say: Malys, in a sudden burst of strength, had lashed out with her fist, and connected _hard_—right in the side of the Nord's exposed neck. The bandit toppled to the ground, unconscious.

The other mages looked stunned. Vinye was looking at Malys, head slightly tilted. Cosette and Tolfdir were wild-eyed. Even the remaining bandit had stopped attempting to land a hit on an equally distracted J'zargo—though the Khajiit, no stranger to distraction himself, quickly finished him off with a wave of his paw and an offhanded fireball.

As the dust settled, there was a very uncomfortable silence as the mages continued to look at Malys.

"What are _you_ looking at?" the Dunmer snarled. Her voice was entirely different from before, now: it was keen as a razor, and so cold that the air around her had changed; it felt like the mages were still in Winterhold.

"Get going!" she hissed angrily. "I'll catch up with you later." She turned to the bandit. "This one is _mine_."

The four mages didn't need telling twice. At a hushed whisper from Tolfdir, they continued their journey to Riften at a noticeably faster pace—desperate to avoid whoever, or whatever, had managed to have that effect on Malys.

* * *

Once they disappeared over the ridge, She went to work.

Her hands danced with a gentle light; Her left hand enveloped the prone form of the bandit She was standing over, the other was a flickering green that extended over the nord's face. The combination of magic had a slow but sure effect; the bandit was slowly regaining consciousness.

She knew She only had a few seconds to mentally prepare herself. It had felt so long since She had done this—years, certainly, but it felt like decades or even entire centuries. The conditions weren't exactly ideal, either, but She would have to play with the hand She was dealt.

The bandit's eyes fluttered open.

Now.

"You're awake," She said. Simple, but soft and seductive—_give him just a hint_.

The nord looked around. His movements were sluggish. "What … what happened?" he asked, as he saw the bodies around him.

"They tried to turn on you," She lied.

The nord tried to get up, but She was upon him in an instant, pushing him back down with the weight of her body, spreading his arms outward with Hers. "No, no," She said in a falsely soothing voice. "Shh, shh, don't try to move. You've been injured. You need to rest. Don't worry—I'll take _very_ good care of you."

The greenish glow of Her calm spell was beginning to fade.

"You … you did this! You killed them!" growled the nord as his senses finally came to him. he reached for his axe—only for a thin spike of ice to nail his palm to the road. his roar of anger turned rapidly to a bleat of agony.

_Bad boy_.

"What did Mistress tell you to do?" She asked, preparing another ice spike. When the bandit failed to answer, save for more pained gasps, She released the magic, impaling the Nord's other palm, pinning him helplessly to the road.

"Answer Me!" She screamed, slapping him in the face for good measure. Some ice magic was still left over; it had collected on Her hand after firing the ice spike. It shredded the bandit's face, causing him to scream again.

A curious sensation snaked through Her body at this. It certainly _had_ been a long time, then, hadn't it?

"Don't move!" he said finally, muffled through the fresh blood running into his mouth. "You told me not to move!"

She smiled. "That's a _good boy_." Her hands glowed with the same magic as before, and passed over the bandit—healing his face, calming him once again. She knew the others would come back for Her eventually—but that did not mean She couldn't take Her time.

Her smile faded. "Will you tell Mistress your name?"

This time, She got a response much quicker. "gjavar," gasped the bandit.

"gjavar … what?" She asked. Her eyes flitted to the ice spike on Her left. She grinned wickedly, and shifted her position a little—enough to let the nord know exactly what She was about to do. She planted one of her armored boots on top of the spike, smiled warmly at him—

—and then drove her foot down _hard_, shifting her heel as she did so, and slowly, cruelly _twisting_ the shard into gjavar's flesh. his screaming was as loud as any dragon.

"gjavar, what?" she repeated again.

"gjavar, Mistress!" he shouted.

"Thank you," She said. _Good boy_.

Another healing spell, another flash of green light. "Do you know who I am?"

gjavar frowned. " … Mistress?" he asked. his voice was as small and innocent as a child's.

She slapped him again, and She regretted She did not have any more ice left on Her hand this time. "you will not be smart with me," She said sharply. "It's too late for you to tell Me you've decided to grow a brain, s'wit."

She placed a boot on the other ice spike. "Now … who am I?" she asked once more.

gjavar thought for a few moments. "You're that elf," he finally recognized. "The mage with all the others."

She relaxed Her foot, but still kept it rooted to the ice shard. "And what did you say to 'that elf'?" She asked acidly.

"i … i called You a grayskin," he choked. Tears were beginning to stream down his cheeks, and She felt another twinge of euphoria ripple through Her at the sight.

"And?"

"And … and that Skyrim … belonged t—_AUUUUGH!_"

She had brought down her other boot on the ice spike, much harder than the first time, and gjavar's tortured screams surely much have been heard all the way back to Windhelm; they were so loud that She had to resist the temptation to cover Her ears from the volume.

"And that's why you've been a _bad boy_," She sneered, as gjavar slowly began to hold back a sob from the pain. "Skyrim does not belong to selfish little garbage like you, or any of your kind."

"Maybe not," gjavar said defiantly, choking back his tears, "but i belong to her."

She didn't even bother with a simple slap this time; angrily, She charged up another ice spike—this one longer and thinner than the other two—and fired it right into the nord's throat. There was an obscene choking noise, and gjavar's eyes widened until they were in danger of leaving his skull, but he did not cry out in torment this time.

"you do not belong to Skyrim," She hissed through clenched teeth, "you belong to Mistress, for as long as I wish!"

She moved Her foot towards the shard in his throat, intending to nail it in further and _twist_ it just like before—

—and suddenly felt a strong hand clamp down on Her arm.

* * *

Malys gasped.

Tolfdir had arrived at the very last moment. The aged wizard was straining with all his might on Malys' arm with his right hand, while his left hand sent a stream of healing magic in Gjavar's direction. The bandit's scars sealed up after some time, and he slowly rose to his feet, gulping for air and coughing loudly.

"Go," Malys barely heard Tolfdir say to the bandit. He'd never sounded so stern.

Gjavar didn't need telling twice. "You mages are insane," he gasped out, backing away in a combination of hate and fear—though fear was clearly winning out. "You hear me? You're insane!" With that, he ran down the road in the direction of Windhelm, and did not look back—not even to notice he'd abandoned his axe on the shoulder.

Meanwhile, Tolfdir was doing his best to calm Malys down. She had relaxed enough to where he had gently released his hold on her, but that hadn't stopped her from feeling the onset of a textbook panic attack.

_What _was_ that? Why did I—no. That wasn't me. That can't have been me!_

The Dunmer began to shiver, in spite of the warm air.

_Liar. Bad girl._

Her muscles had seized up completely. She couldn't move, she couldn't breathe.

_Malys._

_That was a long time ago! That's not me!_

Sweat was forming on her neck; her red eyes were rolling back into her head—

_Mistress. Malys._

_You_. Are. Not! Me!

She felt herself falling down, down, a hundred Red Mountains put together, while simultaneously feeling her insides being sucked high into the heavens—

Malys. _Malys!_

_Stay away from my children, you gray-skin slut!_

"Malys!"

There was a bright flash of green light. The calming spell, coupled with Tolfdir's panicked shouting, had been enough to bring her out of her frightened state—but only just. She was still shaking visibly, tears rolling down her cheeks, but the Master Wizard was holding her now, embracing her as warmly as he would any of his grandchildren.

"It's all right, my dear," she heard him say. "It's all right … "

* * *

It wasn't until they met up with Cosette, Vinye, and J'zargo later that afternoon, as they stopped for a rest in Shor's Stone, that Malys felt comfortable enough to talk to Tolfdir.

" … When Gjavar called me gray-skin," she said over a mug of mead to help calm her nerves, "it set something off in me. I don't know how long it's been hiding, but … I'd managed to keep it under control for the past few years. It's … almost like another _me_—another Malys—only she _isn't_."

"A projection," Tolfdir mused, sitting across from her and listening attentively.

"Sorry?"

The old wizard twiddled his gnarled thumbs. "Understand, Miss Malys," he said, "there are many forces in Mundus and Aetherius that even the most learned of scholars know nothing about, least of all a doddering old fool like myself. And what goes on in here"—he tapped his balding head—"is only one of those forces.

"However, it would seem to me that you've been harboring these emotions, this hatred, for quite some time. Years, possibly, if what you've said is any indication. It also seems to me that you've been keeping a close eye on them … putting them under lock and key, as it were."

Tolfdir leaned forward. "To be sure, that's a very mature way to handle your emotions, Malys," he said seriously. "But you must take care not to overdo things. You tried to force too many old ghosts into that wardrobe—and had no one else been around … "

He let the implication hang in mid-air, and Malys gulped. "Emotions, for all their complexity, are much like magic, Miss Malys. Eagerness must be tempered with caution—"

"—or else disaster is inevitable," finished Malys, to a beaming look from Tolfdir. "But what should I do?" she asked. "Are you saying I should just go ahead and let that … that _thing_ out of me?"

" … Yes, and no," replied the Nord. "Take J'zargo. A wonderful mage he's become—and yet he yearns for more. More adventure, more trinkets and riches … and more knowledge. Not being able to travel with the Dragonborn as in those days of old has put a damper on that. So how, might you ask, does he manage to stay the same Khajiit he was back then?"

Malys thought. "Well, if he already knows Expert-level magic … I'd just say he practices a lot."

"Exactly, my dear—practice and imagination," Tolfdir affirmed. "Perhaps that is the solution to your problem as well."

Malys frowned. "How exactly do I do that?"

Tolfdir laughed. "Come now, Miss Malys," he said. "If I gave away all my secrets, well, I wouldn't be a Master Wizard of Winterhold now, would I?"

The dark elf couldn't help but agree with that.

"Feeling better, then?" Tolfdir asked. When Malys nodded, he stood up. "All right, then, we should probably head to Riften before it gets too dark. Come on, let's go and fetch the others."

Malys hurried after him, feeling significantly better.

Of course, with the way their luck had been so far, there would be one more challenge they would yet have to face.

* * *

_Riften_

"Stop right there!"

"Ugh. Now what?" Cosette groused under her breath, as the two faceless guards in front of the city gate leveled their swords at the mages.

Tolfdir stepped forward. "Is something wrong, gentlemen?"

"City's closed off to outsiders," said the guard closest to them. "Orders of Jarl Laila Law-Giver."

"We were hoping to get some rooms at the Bee and Barb," Tolfdir explained. "Did the Jarl receive any word about a College expedition into the Jerall Mountains? If she did, then that expedition would be us." He indicated himself and the mages behind him.

"You don't want to go in the Bee and Barb," said the guard. "This damn war reached a new head last night. Six people died in there during the night. Horrible scene. Jarl Laila ordered city-wide evacuation this morning, and there's talk of martial law if this gets any worse."

"What war? What's going on in there?" Cosette asked.

The guard huffed, and lowered his sword. Motioning for his companion to do the same, he asked the mages, "You know of Maven Black-Briar?"

Tolfdir frowned. "The woman who ran that meadery? Who was killed a few years ago?"

"She didn't just run the meadery," the guard said condescendingly. "She ran all of Riften. But someone didn't like that. The scum went so far as to order a contract on her head."

"A contract?" Malys' eyes were wide. "You mean they contacted the Dark Brotherhood?"

"No," said the guard. "They contacted the Morag Tong."

"What?!" Malys was incredulous. The Morag Tong was an assassin's guild from Morrowind, similar to the Dark Brotherhood. But where the Brotherhood glorified Sithis, the Tong celebrated the Daedric Prince Mephala. "I heard the Tong disbanded a long time ago! Wiped out—forced into hiding!"

"So did we—but that little slip of paper we found stuffed in Maven's severed windpipe proved us wrong. All signs point to the Tong killing Maven Black-Briar. Except one—and this war's the proof of that."

"What do you mean?" Vinye asked apprehensively. Malys was wondering the same thing herself—it sounded like there was more to this so-called "war" than the guards were letting on.

"That's not your place to know, elf," snapped the guard. "All you need to know is that if the Tong really were behind Maven's death, we've have those murderers clapped in irons by now."

"So is that it, then?" Malys asked Tolfdir. "Are we just going to have to go around the city?"

The guard sighed again. "Listen, if you're that badly in need of a place to sleep, the Merryfair Farm's a stone's throw from here." He pointed westward, and indeed, there was a farmhouse very near to where they were. "Talk to the elf inside, he'll give you a place to sleep if you've got the money."

"Thank you," Tolfdir said. "Best of luck to you—the times are changing, but they are still as troubled as ever."

The guard merely grunted as the mages departed for the farm.

Vinye jumped with a little squeak as Malys nudged her in the ribs. "Please don't do that," the Altmer scolded her, recovering remarkably quickly from the scare. "I _don't like_ being surprised."

"Sorry," Malys hurriedly apologized. "So, are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"About the Morag Tong?" Vinye sighed. "You're from Morrowind, so I'd be surprised if you didn't know this already. But if the Morag Tong really killed Maven Black-Briar—writ and all—then whoever did the deed would have turned themselves in to the guards."

Malys nodded—that was how the Tong operated; they were a legally sanctioned assassin's guild, so they had to abide by the legal codes of the area where they carried out their duty to Mephala. "So the guards weren't just posturing," she said.

"Right," Vinye said. "And the Tong isn't legal outside Morrowind. Which can only mean one of two things: that Maven's murderer is a rogue Morag Tong … "

" … or they got tricked," Malys finished. Then, something hit her. "Wait, why are we even talking about this?" she asked Vinye. "We're mages of Winterhold, not assassins and murderers! This doesn't concern us." _And I hope to Azura it never does_, she thought.

Vinye thought about it for a moment, then shrugged. "Well … it certainly gave us something to talk about," she said hesitantly.

And with that, the two elves walked towards the farmhouse, each feeling that she might have just found a new friend in the other.

* * *

_Next chapter: Who is the mysterious person behind Rkund and its excavation? What was the purpose of the ruins—and what connection does this person have to the College of Winterhold?_


	4. III

**A/N: Holy moly, this chapter got away from me.**

**Also, I've posted a link to a high-resolution cover image for ****_Second Seed_**** on my profile! Hope you enjoy! - K**

III

_Hall of the Elements_

" … Any information as to the whereabouts of the previous group of apprentices would be greatly appreciated. As of yet, there has been no sign of them," Phinis Gestor said to the handful of scholars scattered around the hall. It was getting close to midnight, and everyone here—including himself—had been fighting sleep for some time.

"Now, then," the College of Winterhold's instructor of conjuration said, indicating the flame atronach that had been twirling gracefully in the air next to him for the duration of his speech, "who can tell me how _this_ came to be?"

A very young Nord—hardly into her teens—raised her hand.

"It came through a portal to Oblivion," she said. "Falion told me it's a 'breach in the liminal barrier,'" she quoted, scrunching her face up as she tried to remember.

"Correct, Agni," coughed Phinis, "though perhaps our—_your_—previous master ought to choose his words more carefully, and I shall tell him such the next time I find myself passing through Morthal. The liminal barrier is not a static phenomenon, or even a 'barrier' in the traditional sense of the word, and thus it cannot be 'breached' as such. Rather, think of it more as a conduit—a river. How fast or slow you can make this 'river' flow determines the strength and duration of your summon."

Agni scribbled some notes on a sheaf of paper.

"Which brings me to my next question," Phinis continued. "Camilonwe of Alinor states that such a portal is only temporary, and can only be sustained for several minutes at a time before dissipating. How, then," he asked, his mouth curling upwards in a little smile as he pointed to the flaming daedra again, "has this atronach managed to remain tethered to Mundus since our lesson commenced more than _ten_ minutes ago?"

There was silence from the assembly for a long moment, and then a smallish Altmer lifted her own hand. "A sustained transpontine circumpenetration of the limen is only possible though the aid of a hyperagonal, transliminal medium," she recited, without any indication that she was tired. "Only one such artifact is known to exist outside of theory: a sigil stone."

Silence. Phinis blinked owlishly. "Yes, well … you've certainly done your homework, Nirya," he commented.

"Camilonwe was a close friend of my family—and you can't even get into the Mages' Guild at Alinor unless you've memorized _Liminal Bridges_," Nirya said smugly. "And may I just say, I'd _certainly_ like to know how the College was able to secure the sigil stone that helped make this atronach possible."

Phinis bristled. "I'm quite sure that if you have indeed read Camilonwe's work in its entirety, you would not need to ask that question," he coolly parried. "Suffice to say it was a generous donation by—"

BOOM.

Whoever had 'donated' the sigil stone remained anonymous; Phinis was interrupted at that moment by the noise of the great double doors to the hall slamming shut. He frowned.

"Arch-Mage!" boomed the voice of an old Imperial in a yellowish-brown robe sprinting into the hall and towards Phinis with remarkable agility. "I must see your Arch-Mage at once!"

Faralda and Colette Marence, the restoration instructor, hurried in his wake. The Altmer was panting with every other step.

"Sorry—Phinis," Faralda gasped out. "Tried—stop him—insisted—urgent—"

"It had better be urgent," Phinis said irritably, half to himself, "to barge in on one of _my_ lessons." He nodded to the scholars. "We'll continue our lesson in the morning. Dismissed."

Once the last of the scholars had filed out, he turned to the elder. "Well, explain yourself!" he said accusingly. "Who are you, and why are you here?"

"My name is Lucius Anglinius," blustered the Imperial. "I'm a priest of Meridia. And if you do not take me to your Arch-Mage _right now_, then your College will be in grave danger!"

_Meridia?_ Phinis wondered. The Daedric Princes were all expected to have their own priests and followers, true, but up until now he'd never heard of the Lady of Infinite Energies having any of her own, especially not in Skyrim.

Colette huffed. "Arch-Mage Grimnir is resting," she said scathingly. "And seeing as how you've practically broken down the College's front door, I don't think he'd be willing to talk with you until you're willing to calm down."

There was a brief sizzling noise from behind them, and everyone turned to look. The flame atronach had disappeared; it hadn't exploded, Phinis noted, as the lesser daedra were known to do. It had instead been dispelled, as though by some invisible wave of a hand.

His frown grew more pronounced as he contemplated this. "Then again," Phinis finally said, as he came to a conclusion, "perhaps he may be willing to listen."

He turned to Lucius. "We'll escort you to the Arch-Mage. I would suggest you choose your words carefully—that is, if he chooses to hear them," he added.

Lucius toyed with the hilt of a sword under his robe. "Are you threatening me?" he said, a hint of menace in his voice.

"Not at all," Phinis smirked. "But how long before you leave College grounds—and, more to the point, _how_ you leave them—may well depend on it."

Lucius relaxed, and so—without realizing he was tense in the first place—did Phinis. "Apologies," Lucius grunted. "It's … been a rather long night for me."

The conjuration master silently agreed. "Nevertheless," Phinis said, "zeal for one's duty should not exceed the zeal for one's _health_. If you come to us in the dead of night again, please show some compassion, refresh yourself, and return in the morning when we are _all awake_."

Lucius grudgingly nodded, and the four adults made their way to the Arch-Mage's quarters.

When he came down an hour later, however, Lucius was far from tired, though he would not reveal it to the other three mages, who had stumbled from the room with various combinations of dread and surprise at what he had to say. Even so, Lucius would admit that Phinis had a point: he would have to rest well to perform Meridia's work to her satisfaction.

Therefore, he proceeded to the Hall of Countenance, where the instructors slept. Colette had been kind enough to point him to a spare bed. After praying to Meridia for her guidance in the task he would have to carry out tomorrow, he finally turned in for the night.

* * *

_Merryfair Farm_

"OW!"

Vinye and Cosette were unpleasantly roused from their sleep at Malys' shout, followed by the noise of an ice spike thudding into the skull of a skeever. The carcass of the large rat skidded across the grass where they had pitched their bedrolls, and hit Cosette in the knee.

"What was that all about?" Cosette grumbled as she stumbled from her bedroll, punting the dead rat into the field.

Malys was shaking her left hand, which was bleeding slightly. "Damn thing _bit_ me," she said crossly, looking at the dead pest with loathing.

"You should get that looked at," said the Breton airily. "Ataxia does some pretty bad things to your hands. Actually," she added, a sudden thought coming to mind, "now that I think about it … "

Gingerly, she picked up the skeever by the tail, and bathed it in flames from her free hand for about a minute. Then, once the body had been sufficiently burnt, she skinned off a large piece of the hide with the tip of her Forsworn blade, removed the fur and fat, and threw the result dispassionately on Malys' lap. "Here—eat up."

Malys pulled a face. "You're kidding, right?"

Cosette didn't even blink. "Any alchemist worth her salt knows skeever hides can cure just about everything if you cook them long enough," she said.

"You couldn't have put it in a potion, though?" Malys asked.

"Ugh—gods, I can't believe I'm even _related_ to you," scoffed Cosette. "You elves are as spoiled as they come."

"You do know I'm right here?" Vinye pointed out from behind her. The half-elf rolled her eyes, but otherwise paid no heed.

"Just eat the damn thing," Cosette said exasperatedly. "Back when I lived in the Reach, I hardly had potions of my own. If I got attacked by an animal, I'd eat some juniper berries straight from the trees, and I'd be back on my feet in a few minutes' time."

She looked at Malys, who was staring at her with a slightly hurt expression, and relented—though only a little. "I'm sorry, Malys, but this isn't the College," she sighed. "There'll come a time when you're going to need more than your magic to survive—and in the wild, that time might be just around the corner."

The Dunmer stared at Cosette, then at the piece of hide cooling on her robes, and groaned. "Fine," she said, picking it up with two fingers as though it might bite her. "But I'll take that bet."

And without further ado, she lifted the skeever's skin to her mouth, squished her eyes shut, and began to chew.

The substance tasted every bit as foul as she had imagined, and only the prospect of a cure kept Malys from spitting the piece of hide out then and there. But immediately, she knew Cosette had been telling the truth. She felt more invigorated, now, and the skeever bite was slowly becoming less and less painful.

Eventually, she forced herself to swallow, and coughed violently. "Yecch," she gagged. "I suppose it wouldn't be medicine if it didn't taste bad."

She stood up abruptly, and headed for the farmhouse. "I'll be right back," she said over her shoulder.

Vinye watched her go with a concerned look. "You could have just gone to the docks outside Riften, picked up a mudcrab, and mixed that hide with some of its chitin," the Altmer commented. "Any alchemist 'worth her salt' would know that," she echoed.

Cosette shrugged. "Maybe. But better she learns that lesson now than finding out the hard way."

"Ah! You're already up—good, good!" The two women turned to see Tolfdir and J'zargo striding up the path that led to the city's docks. Both were clutching long lengths of rope, and both of their faces looked less than cheerful.

"Where is Malys?" J'zargo asked, frowning.

As if on cue, an angry scream came from behind the farmhouse, followed by a continuous thumping noise, then more incoherent shouting. Suddenly, one of the smaller trees beside the farmhouse—just barely visible behind the roof—toppled to the ground with a groaning crash.

Malys stepped out a few seconds later. Her black hair was a little ruffled, and she was breathing heavily, but she looked noticeably calm in spite of this.

"My word!" Tolfdir exclaimed. "What happened back there?"

"Nothing you need to worry about," said Malys evenly. "I just thought I'd take your advice from the other day, Tolfdir."

"Oh?" The Master Wizard inclined his head slightly. "And … how did it work?"

"It'll take some time," Malys shrugged. "But I think I might be on to something." She glanced at Tolfdir in a very meaningful way, while J'zargo, Cosette, and Vinye all shared looks of confusion.

"Erm … well, if you say so," said Tolfdir. "I'm afraid we'll need to leave earlier than we were hoping for, ladies. We may have a problem. I'll explain on the way."

Fifteen minutes later, the five mages had packed up, cleaned up, and left Merryfair Farm exactly as it had been before they'd arrived—except for the felled tree that, much to the consternation of the farmer and his wife, had been impaled by upwards of a dozen ice spikes.

* * *

_South of Riften_

"Is that Rkund up there?" Vinye asked, gazing up the mountains. The clouds hugging the near-vertical cliffs in the distance almost completely obscured them. But the curved domes of the Dwemer towers were unmistakable, and she could see at least one of them at the very top of the mountains.

"How in Azura's name are we going to get up there?" Malys groaned.

Tolfdir cleared his throat. "Well, our initial plan was to pass through Darklight Tower," he explained, pointing far off to an imposing-looking fort a little to the west of Rkund, buried into the cliffs. "But I've word from that guard at the gate that some … well, less-than-savory people have moved in."

"Not more bandits!" Cosette exclaimed.

"Mm, if only," Tolfdir said grimly. "There've been reports of some ghastly rituals going on at the summit."

J'zargo growled unpleasantly. "Necromancers."

A chill went through Vinye's spine, and Cosette shrank so far into her robes that she looked like a little girl. As mages, all five of them knew well that the study and practice of reanimation was a banned subject throughout most of Tamriel. Even the College of Winterhold, while tolerant enough to teach the basics, was clear to state that it did not encourage its practice on people.

"If it was only myself and J'zargo, I might be all right with giving them what for," Tolfdir said. "However—and not to doubt you three—I wouldn't forgive myself if they managed to get their hands on any of you. Divines only know what they'd do to you."

"Then how do we get up there?" asked Vinye.

"That is the problem," J'zargo said. "Fortunately"—he brandishing his length of rope—"this one may know another way up the mountain."

Cosette blanched. "No," she said. "No way. I'm not taking another of your shortcuts, cat—I'll remember that wispmother from the _last_ one if I live to be a hundred."

J'zargo held up a claw. "Ah," he smiled, "but this time is different. If we are lucky, then we will not have to fight any monsters at all."

Malys looked skeptical. "And if we're unlucky?"

J'zargo was still smiling. "Then we will have to fight a dragon."

Everyone except him and Tolfdir froze in their tracks. "_What_," chorused the three mages.

Vinye made a noise like a skeever being stepped on; she felt like she might faint at any moment.

"The cliff slopes are most gentle _there_, around Lost Tongue Overlook," explained Tolfdir, pointing to a huge Nordic arch that appeared tiny in the distance. "But something about that place has attracted the dragons ever since they returned four years ago. I'd wager there's one roosting up there right now."

Malys found her voice. "You just finished saying you didn't want us to get killed by necromancers!" she spluttered. "Now you're suggesting we might get torn in half, or burned to a crisp, or … _eaten_ by a sodding _dragon_?!"

Cosette was looking at the Khajiit with a blank look on her face. "You're insane," she said placidly, shaking her head. "I … I can't even be angry with you about that—that's _literally_ all I can say. You're utterly _mad_."

Vinye was inclined to agree, but the confidence of that Khajiit was infectious, and the more she thought about it, the more she felt herself coming back to her senses. She remembered that just the other day, J'zargo had mentioned traveling with the Dragonborn of legend. Vinye had also been inclined to believe him then, and now was also inclined to believe J'zargo had seen a few dragons in his time—and he'd like as not already killed a few of his own.

She mentioned this to him, and was pleasantly surprised to hear him laugh in spite of her trepidation. "Khajiit is flattered," he purred, smoothing his mustache. "But only the Dragonborn can truly kill a dragon. And in the time J'zargo knew him, he must have killed dozens of the beasts—perhaps even as many as a hundred."

Cosette didn't acknowledge the boast. "However, since none of us are Dragonborn, last time I checked," she said sardonically, "if we _do_ get attacked by a dragon, then we're just about sunk."

"Which is why we are _avoiding_ the dragon," J'zargo said patiently, "and will climb _away_ from it. Khajiit are very sneaky—the great thief Rajhin could steal the scales from a dragon's beating heart in his day. Do as Khajiit does, and we will reach the Dwarven ruin with our lives and limbs in one piece, hmm?"

After considering J'zargo's words, Malys shrugged reluctantly. " … At least with a dragon, you'll _stay_ dead," she said. "I'm for the idea."

"I suppose it's a _quick_ way to go, too," grimaced Cosette, gripping her Forsworn blade a little tighter.

Everyone now turned to Vinye. The Altmer had no doubt that her olive skin was now white as a snow elf, and her feet felt like they were anchored to the ground. She looked once more at J'zargo. That was enough.

"All right," she said with a gulp. "Let's go."

* * *

_Lost Tongue Overlook_

An hour later, however, the bravado had worn off, and with every second they spent on the worn stairs that would eventually lead to the summit of the overlook—and the dragon dwelling above—Vinye felt her confidence dropping like an anchor.

The only obstacle they'd encountered had been a simple soul gem, on top of a pillar that the ancient Nords had constructed to dispose of foolhardy treasure hunters—as if the dragon wasn't enough of a threat. Only Tolfdir's quick reflexes had saved them; even then, the ice storm it had blasted them with had been so potent that it took every bit of magicka Tolfdir had to deflect it with his ward. A firebolt from J'zargo knocked the pink gem off its plinth, disarming it.

For the last fifteen minutes now, they had been resting under a crag—not only so the Master Wizard could replenish his strength, but also because they were fearful the dragon might have heard the trap's activation. The suspense had not been kind to any of them, but Vinye doubted anyone's nerves felt worse than hers.

Eventually, J'zargo was convinced that the dragon had not, in fact, been roused, and beckoned them out, lifting a claw to his jowls. Slowly, silently, everyone obeyed, taking care to look where they stepped.

The plan was thus: they would climb to a height predetermined by J'zargo, who would feed them the ropes as he progressed. From there, the rocky slopes leveled off further still, and could be passed without the aid of any climbing gear—though the unevenness of the terrain still warranted the utmost care and attention. As the Khajiit was best suited to climb the cliffs both quickly and stealthily—and they would need as much of both as they could spare—they had unanimously elected he would go first. Tolfdir, being the heaviest, would act as their anchor in case of high winds.

Once Tolfdir was in his place, J'zargo commenced his climb, feeding both lines over his shoulder, the other four mages holding on like their lives depended on it—which was certainly true.

It was a very strange feeling, thought Vinye, as she felt the vibrations of the thick lengths of hemp, one in each of her tightly clenched hands. Occasionally, they would jerk about as the Khajiit leapt from one crag to the next like a saber cat, shrinking into a fuzzy speck the further away from them he climbed.

A roar echoed in the distance, and everyone froze. But the suspense died almost immediately; whatever it was, it was much too far away to be the dragon lording over the Overlook.

"He's insane," Cosette murmured to herself again. "He's going to kill us all."

"You're not afraid, are you?" Malys said. She might have sounded taunting if not for the slight tremor to her voice.

Cosette shook her head, and wordlessly jerked her head in Vinye's general direction. The high elf turned away quickly when Malys looked back at her, but not quickly enough to disguise her shame.

"He'll make it," Vinye said under her breath, hoping J'zargo could somehow sense the urgency in her. _He has to_.

And sure enough, after a number of minutes that might as well have been years, everyone felt a sudden tug on the ropes.

"He's over!" Tolfdir reassured them. "Quickly, now—fasten your bags to the rope and do exactly as I say!"

As the mages did so, Tolfdir busied himself with tying the ends of the two ropes together. They would use the combined lengths as a pulley system, pulling one while feeding the other to J'zargo, who would do the same thing. Meanwhile, the mages set about securing each of their packs as tightly to the rope as possible. Once this was done, Tolfdir signaled to J'zargo by yanking on the rope once, and the supplies were sent on their way, bumping and bouncing along the rocks.

The mages' efforts were flawless, but not entirely coordinated; there were several occasions where Vinye thought she could hear the tinkling of glass over the rising wind, and she fervently hoped that none of those noises belonged to her potions. Once, the wind grew so strong that everyone had to strain to keep their bags from being dashed against the cliffs. The rough hemp burned their hands; Malys' palms in particular were not a pretty sight.

"Dagon's_ pits!_" she hissed through the pain. But she held on, and eventually, their supplies made it over as well after another signaling tug from J'zargo. She immediately cast a healing spell on herself, sighing in relief as her scars resealed.

Now came the hard part. Each of the mages wrapped a thick strip of burlap around their torsos, and secured both ends of the rough cloth to the rope. Malys stepped forward against the rock, muttering oaths and prayers under her breath to every daedra from Sheogorath to Malacath.

"Hold the line behind you, and don't get too overconfident with your feet," Tolfdir instructed her. "Let J'zargo do the work. Keep as close to the rock as you can, and don't look down!"

" … Boethiah, inspire me," finished Malys. She nodded, tugged once on the rope, and J'zargo hoisted her upwards. There was some initial awkwardness as she stepped over the rocks, fumbling to keep the ropes untangled while simultaneously trying not to kick away from the cliff in a blind panic. She calmed down after around a minute, though, and the remainder of her climb suffered no setbacks at all.

Five minutes later, it was Cosette's turn. The Breton had also been mumbling under her breath the whole time. Vinye only caught " … This is not how I want to die … this is not how I want to die … " repeated over and over again like an incantation. She did not acknowledge Tolfdir's directions, or even look in his direction; still reciting her chant, she picked up the rope, started her climb, and was lost from view inside of a minute.

Another five minutes, another tug on the rope, and now Vinye vaguely felt her legs moving forward. Her entire body was numb, and she did not hear anything Tolfdir was saying, either. Her world had shrunk to this little—little only when compared to the massive mountains it was part of—slice of cliff in front of her, and two hemp ropes that might as well be cotton threads.

There was another roar, very far away. Vinye just barely registered it, and without any other thoughts, the high elf tugged on her rope and started her climb.

It was a climb she would remember for the rest of her life. Within seconds she had lost any sense of direction; the only colors were various shades of gray. The hemp rope was frayed and slippery, and she was constantly in danger of losing her grip. The rocks were no less so, and sharp in places as well; she could feel the edges ripping through her thin boots and into her heels.

How long it took her to make the climb, Vinye did not know. Time had stopped around her, and all she could hear was the scream of the wind in her ears. The gusts were bigger now, more frequent, and more regular.

_Wait_, a distant corner of her mind thought. _Regular?_

_That's not the wind_, she thought. _That's ... Oh, no_.

And then she heard it—an earsplitting roar that made the earth itself tremble in fear, for its source was older by far.

Vinye could not resist the temptation; she tore her focus away from the cliff—just in time to see the massive creature flying over the valley. Brilliant red and gold, with two leathery black wings the size of houses in place of arms, and bursting with bony spines as high as a man was tall.

But Vinye cared for none of that; all that she cared to know about right now was that there—before her eyes—was an actual, living dragon. And that dragon was heading _right towards her_.

It took every ounce of restraint not to scream—as fast as it was going, the dragon did not seem to know she was there. Neither did she want it to find out—so she turned back to the cliff, her heart slamming into her ribs, and resumed her climb. She went much faster now, and her pace was frenzied. The rocks tore into her robes and her flesh with equal resistance, but she did not care. All she thought about was one thing: _get away now_.

"_Laan rotte, bahlaan gein_," rumbled the monster. Vinye heard the words perfectly, even with the wind and the distance. Though she did not know what they meant—nor did she particularly care—the implications of this ancient beast being capable of speech turned her blood to ice.

It could only mean there was more than one.

Only seconds later, she heard a loud THUD, a screeching bellow, and another equally loud roar. Vinye glanced out of the corner of her eye for only the tiniest fraction of a moment, but that was enough to confirm her worst fears: a second dragon, purplish-black in color, had literally _rammed_ into the first dragon, throwing it off course.

"_Zu'u fen hon_," hissed this new dragon. "_Sulyeki nahkip. Krif voth ahkrin!_"

The first dragon righted itself, and bellowed, "_Yol … Toor SHUL!_" A jet of flame erupted from its jaws.

A lesser creature would have been cremated instantly. But the dragons were creations of Akatosh himself, immortal and without any concept of weakness. Something so trivial as fire only blackened the purple dragon's scales.

It responded in kind—"_Krii … Lun AUS!_"—and released its own spurt of purple fire. This fire had far more of an effect on the red dragon; its scales immediately turned a sickly-looking pink. The other dragon was upon it not long after, tearing physically into the airborne bulk with fangs and claws.

Amidst all this, Vinye had been watching the battle slack-jawed. She had completely forgotten that she was currently a hundred feet above the ground and on a very exposed cliff, or that the rope hauling her upwards had stopped doing just that. She even forgot—though would discover later, much to her humiliation—the warmth that had been spreading across her groin ever since the very, _very_ near miss. In all her life—or in any of her travels throughout Tamriel—she had never ever seen anything quite so awe-inspiring or _terrifying_.

The dragons, meanwhile, continued their deadly battle both in the air and on the ground. Whole trees lay felled around them as they wrestled for supremacy, and dust storms blew in full force as they took to the skies again.

"_Yol … Toor SHUL!_" roared the red dragon again, expelling a massive fireball. The purple dragon tackled it again right at the last word, knocking the blast far off its intended course—and straight for the mesmerized Vinye.

The next thing the Altmer felt was the hottest wind she'd ever felt in her life. Then, the cliff face simply _exploded_ around her. There was a sharp pain in her temple as a large piece of debris slammed into her head, and the world around her faded to merciful blackness.

* * *

_The air was on fire, choking the life from her lungs. Screams echoed all around her, and explosions both near and far echoed in her ears. Everything stank of thick smoke, of burning wood and flesh._

_Shadowy forms of all sizes, silhouetted against the ongoing blaze, flitted in every direction. Some of them caught up with others—and those others disappeared into the inferno, crying out all the while, never to be seen again._

_A voice, loud and commanding, drowned out the sounds of ruin and despair. She could not hear the words distinctly, but she understood them well enough._

_It was a death sentence._

_Another scream, louder and clearer than any before it, and then the world of orange and brown turned into a brilliant, bloody red—_

* * *

Vinye opened her eyes suddenly, and immediately wished she hadn't—excruciating pain flared all over her face, and she instinctively closed her eyes again. She could not move her mouth at all, not even to scream; it was frozen in a half-open grimace.

She opened her eyes again, more carefully this time. The same cloudless sky was there, and the ground under her back felt softer, flatter. The chirping of birds filled her ears; there were no signs of any dragons.

Pain snaked through her body as she tried to take in her surroundings. She could barely see her body—or, rather, the caked mass of blood that felt like her body—out of the corner of her eye.

"Not so fast, my dear," a familiar voice wheezed, and her eyes flicked upward. Tolfdir was standing over her, and she could see J'zargo, Malys and Cosette circled around her. All of them looked worried.

It took a long time for reality to sink in. "I'm … alive?" she croaked.

"By the skin of your teeth," said Cosette shakily. "If that fireball had hit just five more feet to the right, you'd be charcoal."

"It took all three of us the better part of an hour to haul you up here and get you healed," Malys added. "When we saw your body come up, we thought the worst had happened." She shuddered.

"Is this one well enough to eat?" J'zargo asked tentatively. He was holding a wooden bowl; whatever was in it smelled absolutely wonderful, and Vinye slowly nodded. The Khajiit tipped a ladleful of the stuff into her mouth; it was vegetable soup, and it was the most delicious thing she had ever tasted. She closed her eyes, bliss spreading over her in spite of her present state.

"The soup is good, yes?" smiled J'zargo. "Then you should see the view."

Any thoughts of pain or fatigue left Vinye instantly. She stiffly raised out an arm, letting J'zargo take it, while Tolfdir lifted her by the shoulders, helping her stand. Once Vinye felt like she could stand without their aid, she straightened up. Aches still shot through her back and her legs, but she ignored it; she had to see for herself.

And when she did, she forgot about the pain, about the dragons, and about their expedition.

She was standing on the cliff, inches away from the precipice, and could barely see their starting point hundreds of feet away, below and to her right. Past that was a wide, sweeping valley full of greens and browns, and at the other end stood a massive mountain with a ruined fortress at its peak.

Then J'zargo took her by the arm, turning her around, and Vinye had to fight the urge to cheer. The Khajiit was now showing her three massive, golden-capped towers, some partially sunken into the ground, but no less the beautiful for the wear that came with thousands of years of disuse. One of the towers was carved into the mountain, and fitted with a set of bronze doors tall enough to fit a giant.

_Rkund_.

They'd made it.

* * *

The novelty of the scenery soon wore off, as did the warming effects of J'zargo's vegetable soup. But by that time, Vinye had largely recovered from her ill-fated climb, and cast a few more rays of healing magic as the five mages prepared to enter Rkund.

Almost immediately, however, they could tell something was wrong. A large-scale excavation was definitely underway here, judging by the tents and pickaxes lying all over the place. But there were several bodies strewn about the smoothly worn stone of the pavilion, and spatters of blood beside each one. One corpse was slumped over a water-filled structure that Vinye guessed had been a fountain in its day.

A pile of glowing ash was nearby, and J'zargo inspected it. "Another wispmother," he said after a while, pulling a telltale threadbare wrapping from the remains. "The other miners must have fled inside. We should follow."

"We're right behind you," affirmed Tolfdir.

With a heavy groan, J'zargo forced the massive doors open, and they stepped into Rkund.

* * *

The halls were an unlikely combination of metal and stone, and yet they still seemed alive to Vinye. Thick metal pipes, the same color as the doors, belched thick clouds of steam that obscured their vision. Everything hissed and clanked, and the sounds reverberated off the carved walls, nearly deafening the elf. And over it all, there was an ominous, rumbling hum that made her very bones shudder.

"So this is a Dwarven ruin," Malys commented, clearly impressed. "They look a lot different than in Morrowind."

Cosette was awestruck. "Incredible … "

J'zargo, for his part, was already looking into the nooks and crannies of the hallway. He'd already found a few trinkets made of the Dwemer metal, and stuffed them into his pockets.

"Four thousand years, the Dwemer have been gone," Tolfdir said reverently, as they strolled through the halls, which sloped further downward with every step they took. "And still this machinery runs like it hasn't been four _months_. Imagine if they were still around!" he exclaimed. "The secrets they would have been able to share with us—astronomy, arcanics, running water! Alas," he sighed, "Tamriel will have to live without such comforts and advances for a very long time, I fear."

Vinye doubted "comfort" was a universal term, in this case. They had just passed a small living space, and even the beds here appeared to be made of stone.

She stumbled suddenly as she approached a grating—the floor had slightly sunk when she'd put her foot down on it. Immediately, Malys tackled her to the wall. "Move!" the Dunmer yelled.

She was just in time—rows of spears, triggered by the pressure plate, had suddenly erupted from the metal grate, missing the two elves by inches.

Malys and Vinye looked each other in the eye, both feeling a little embarrassed. In Vinye's case, however, her embarrassment was being replaced by something else that she could not quite place—something like … _curiosity? Was that the word?_

She hurriedly cleared her throat. "Sorry," she apologized, and quickly moved away from Malys. "I'll … I'll try to be more careful in the future."

She wondered if the dark elf had understood her simple message of thanks. But in actuality, Vinye had seen something in those blood-red eyes—and deep down, it had scared her.

_Malys Aryon of House Hlaalu … who are you?_ Vinye wondered.

_Wait … House Hlaalu?!_

"There!" said J'zargo, before Vinye could dwell on this any further. They had entered what must have been the city's grand hall; the entire College of Winterhold could have fit into a corner of this massive space. Cosette was lost for words: she had resorted to turning round and round on her feet like a child, taking in every angle of this magnificent structure.

Six tents had been erected in the middle of the room, Vinye could see, and several dozen people were clustered around them, sitting around fires, telling stories, and cooking food. The general mood was subdued.

Tolfdir approached the nearest fire. "Are you with the excavation?" he asked one of the men, a thin, seedy-looking wood elf.

"Yeah," grunted the Bosmer, as he tucked into a portion of pheasant. "I wish I wasn't, though. This whole venture went straight to Oblivion this morning."

"I assume that wispmother forced you all down here?" Tolfdir asked gently.

The wood elf nodded, still not looking up from his food. "That's what you call that monster, huh? Yeah. Dro'zaka and six others were dead before the mercenaries were even fully armed. _They're_ all dead, too."

"How did the wispmother die, then?" Cosette looked concerned.

The elf was quiet for a few seconds as he chewed. "Solyn," he finally said. "He's the one who put this excavation together. I don't know what he killed that thing with, and I'm not keen to know. Those wizards give me the creeps."

"Where is this Solyn?" Tolfdir inquired, unabashed by the insult.

The Bosmer pointed towards the opposite end of the grand hall; Vinye could barely see a small recess in the wall containing a single golden lever. "He took the lift down that way," said the Bosmer. "Said he was going to study one of the deeper sections of the city—something called a 'Reliquary.'"

"Are any of you with him?"

The wood elf sighed sorrowfully. "I wish. We didn't decide until later that the safest place to be was right next to Solyn's side. About twenty of us went down after him a few hours ago. I'm the only one who made it back."

At the mages' expression of concern, he explained, "I think these ruins … I don't know … _sensed_ Solyn was here, somehow. Maybe it's because he's a wizard, and we're just miners and lowlifes. But the lower sections of the city have ... turned themselves on. Metal creatures are patrolling the halls below in droves, and metal men as well."

"Animunculi," Tolfdir said knowingly, exchanging a glance with J'zargo.

"If you're looking for Solyn," said the elf, turning at last to the mages with a warning look on his face, "then you're on your own. None of us are fool enough to go down there—I've had enough of the Dwemer for one lifetime, thank you very much. Give me the branches of Falinesti for this thrice-damned ruin any day of the week."

The name stirred something in Vinye's memory. "You've been to Falinesti?" she blurted, before she could stop herself.

The Bosmer turned to look at her, and immediately his expression turned from sorrow to outright fury. "You?!" he bellowed, causing some of the miners around him to stop and stare. "What the blazes are the Thalmor doing here?!"

Vinye stared back at him, totally nonplussed. "Thalmor?" she repeated innocently. "What are you—?"

"What's the matter, elf?" taunted the wood elf, his voice rising to an anguished howl. Vinye instantly backed away. "Wasn't it enough when you brought your butchery to Green-Sap? I lost two whole generations of my family because of you demons in the Dominion!"

Malys made a noise that sounded more appropriate from a wolf than a dark elf. "Vinye is a _good girl_!" she snarled, in the same growling voice Vinye had heard during that bandit attack the other day.

Tolfdir stepped forward, putting himself between the angry elf and Vinye, who was teetering on the edge of tears. "I'm terribly sorry, I think there's been a misunderstanding," he soothed. "Vinye is a novice at the College of Winterhold, as are these two young women." He indicated Cosette and the irate Malys. "We've not had relations with the Dominion for years, and even then, it was only one—"

"I don't care," said the elf. He'd quieted down considerably now, but that made his rage all the more terrifying. "You elves have no business being in here—and neither do I," he spat through gritted teeth, looking daggers at Vinye. "I'm leaving this place, and I hope I don't have to see you again. There's enough blood on the ground already—but I don't think it'll mind _one_ more dead elf."

And with that threat, the Bosmer rose up from the fire, spat in it, went to his tent, and did not speak any longer.

"Goodness," said Tolfdir after a while, before turning to Vinye. "Vinye, are you … all right?"

The Altmer was far from it. Her feet were rooted to the floor, her whole body was shaking, and her leaf-green eyes were wide open and streaked with tears.

"I'm … not," Vinye whispered, almost to herself, before she realized four pairs of eyes were staring right at her. She gasped.

"I'm not staying here," she said abruptly, wiping her eyes on her robes. "Let's just find this Solyn and get the hell out of here."

"Um … very well," conceded Tolfdir. "Why don't you three go as a group? J'zargo and I would like to explore some of the adjacent sections of Rkund." He pointed at several large double doors on either side of the hall.

"What about all those Dwemer machines?" Malys asked apprehensively, her voice—and her mood—back to normal.

"If this Solyn character is half the wizard that elf said he is," Cosette said, arms folded, "he'll have done most of the dirty work for us already. Besides, there's three of us, one of him, and we've both got a _wispmother_ to our credit. I think we'll be fine."

Malys stared at Cosette for a long moment, and shrugged. "I'll remember that for the eulogy," she said dryly.

They hurried after Vinye, who had already stepped into the lift by the time they were halfway there. Thankfully, Vinye had mellowed out enough to where she waited a few seconds before activating the lever at her feet. Once she had, there was a whoosh of steam, and the lift sank further into the ruins of Rkund.

* * *

The Bosmer's warning had not been unfounded; almost as soon as the lift had stopped, three spider-like automatons had jumped out from their ports to meet the novices. Malys' ice magic was ineffective; every shard she fired at them simply bounced off the golden metal. The claws of the machine hurt like a scrib's bite, as she found out the hard way, but at least there was no threat of paralysis.

Cosette and Vinye were having much better luck; one spider fell to Cosette's firebolts almost immediately, littering the hallway with broken scraps. Vinye hit the other two with the same blast of lightning, finishing them off with a small growl.

"Nice one," Cosette said, with equal parts appreciation and apprehension. It was clear to both her and Malys that the Altmer was still angry about the earlier incident, and Cosette, abrasive as she could be, knew when to draw a line.

Malys, unfortunately, did not appear to have the same boundaries. "You want to talk about it?" she asked.

"Not particularly," Vinye snapped. "Unless you want to talk about that _bandit_ … "

That silenced the dark elf. Cosette thought of a hundred ways to call Vinye out for rudely bringing up what she assumed was a sore subject, but something told her she wasn't in the mood for that, either.

Apart from a few more spiders, their expedition continued in silence until they reached a large bronze door. Further investigation, in the form of much pushing, pulling, and very colorful language from Cosette, showed that it was locked tight.

"I don't suppose anyone brought any picks?" Cosette ventured, once she'd taken out her frustration on the impassive golden bust beside the door (neither fire nor blade did so much as chip the stern face). Vinye and Malys shook their heads.

"Hang on," the Dunmer said, a thought coming to her. "I want to try something." She walked up to the door, bent forward to look through the lock, and pointed a finger right at the keyhole. A faint hiss filled the room for close on to a minute before she removed her finger, and experimentally pushed at the double doors.

To everyone's surprise, even Malys', they swung open.

"What did you do?" Vinye asked, forgetting for the moment how angry she was.

"I wanted to see if I couldn't use my ice to rust the lock," Malys said. "I didn't think it would actually work—I was counting on the Dwemer using the same metal in their locks as they have everywhere else." She shrugged. "I guess after you work your way through one lock, they all look the same to you."

And she strode into the next room, to bemused stares from her friends.

This chamber was unlike any of the others; it was a natural cavern—even larger than the city's grand hall—that glowed with unearthly greenish-blue light. Bizarrely, a great deal of it seemed to come from the house-sized rocks strewn all over the place, while the rest came from giant mushrooms with umbrellas wider than Vinye was tall. Some Dwemer ruins were built into the other end of this cave, making it all the more imposing.

It was strangely beautiful, they all agreed. Unfortunately, the pair of knee-high metal balls heading their way prevented them from appreciating it for long.

Suddenly, those spheres unfolded into something uncannily like a man, with a blade for one arm and a bow for the other. Before the mages could react, they had already fired a salvo of bolts at them. One of them caught Cosette in the shoulder, and she yowled in pain. Malys was immediately on her with her healing magic; not being able to provide any offense against the machines, she had resorted to playing the role of medic—which suited her just fine, for some reason; it was a role she felt more … familiar with.

With her assistance, the spheres were nothing but smoking piles of scrap one minute later, and they continued on.

"This feels like some kind of church," Vinye mused after another long period of silence, as they came to the ruins in the cavern. Rows of stone benches lined either side of the enclosed platform they had just entered. Four immense chandeliers were suspended above the space.

"The dwarves didn't believe in worshipping gods," Malys said, shaking her head. "At least, there's nothing that says they did. They preferred reason to religion. My predecessors, the Chimer, were the exact opposite, and they went to war over their differences four thousand years ago."

"Who won?" Cosette asked.

"No one," was Malys' reply. "The war only ended because all the Dwemer disappeared. The Chimer didn't get off easy, either. Azura cursed them all for what they did in the war—and they were changed into _this_." She patted her gray skin, and pointed out her red eyes.

The hum of the machinery seemed to grow a little louder in the ensuing silence—broken only by a sudden series of strange clicking and swishing noises, growing louder with each passing moment.

"Where's that coming from?" said Cosette, frowning.

Malys got to her feet, scanning the surrounding area. "I don't know," she said in confusion. "Sounds like it could be a blade trap—but I don't see any grooves in the floor."

"That's because they're not coming from the floor," Vinye said. She was pointing upwards, and looked fearful. The two other novices followed her finger.

High above them, the chandeliers were coming to life; metal panels were sliding, unfurling, and reconfiguring into vaguely insectoid shapes, almost like giant wasps. What passed for wings were made up of two double-ended blades that rotated so quickly they were almost a blur, and its body terminated in a "stinger" composed of a single levitating soul gem.

"Run!" Malys shouted, throwing up a hasty ward not a moment too soon: two of the wasps had blasted lightning bolts straight for the trio. One harmlessly hit the stone pavilion; Malys' imperfect ward was enough to deflect the other, but the shock of the impact left her arm numb. A third bolt caught her full in the chest, and she staggered back with a yelp.

_Okay—that hurts a _lot_ more than a scrib bite_, she decided, as she healed the burn, hissing in pain through her teeth.

Vinye, glowing blue from the effects of her regenerative powers, released her own lightning magic at the airborne automata. Three bolts hit the rotor of one of the wasps, destroying the mechanism and causing the machine to drop like a stone. The severed blades, still turning in midair, only stopped after they became embedded several feet into the ornate walls around the platform.

It was still three against three, and Malys knew that if they split up, they would be badly overmatched. She whirled in Vinye's direction. "Now would be a good time for one of your atronachs!" she hollered.

Vinye shook her head frantically, and barely missed blocking a bolt from a second wasp with her head. Malys didn't know whether to interpret that as "I'm too scared to try," or if that lightning daedra from three nights ago really had come from a badly written scroll instead of her own magickal reserves, as Cosette had claimed.

The Breton grunted. "All right—next best thing," she said, muttering a complex incantation that Malys wasn't able to hear. The Breton's left hand blazed purple, and she slammed her palm onto the ground.

The violet, flaming sphere that constituted a portal to Oblivion burst out of thin air before her, revealing a slim, elegant flame atronach. The daedra wasted no time in flitting about the cavern and firing at will; Malys silently cheered when she saw that the wasps appeared to focus their fire on the atronach instead of its conjurer.

Dwemer machines were certainly efficient, but they lacked the minds of men.

The atronach managed to down one more wasp and disarm another with its firebolts before a blast of lightning blew it apart with a sizable BANG. Cosette took a long draft from a potion to restore her lost magicka, and then summoned another atronach—or the same one again, for all she knew; daedra did not value distinction from one another.

Vinye finished off the damaged wasp with ease, scattering bits of metal all over the pavilion. The remaining automaton seemed to understand that it was outnumbered three to one, and attempted to turn tail. But three firebolts—two from Cosette, another from her summon—followed by a parting shot from Vinye made sure it didn't get very far.

Without the noise of the wasps, the ever-present murmur of Dwarven machinery felt unsettlingly loud as the mages turned to ascend a stone staircase. Most of it had been ruined by the collapse of one of the massive stone pillars that helped to support the high ceiling of the cavern, and it took a few minutes to navigate the piles of debris left behind.

Eventually, after climbing a winding ramp that took them nearly a hundred feet above the ground, the mages were faced with another huge bronze door. There were a large amount of pipes lining the walls.

Something about them didn't seem right to Malys, and she motioned for everyone to stop.

"What is it?" Vinye asked.

Malys pointed to the pipes. "See those?" She pointed to the flat, segmented ends of a number of them. "Those look like ports for more Dwemer machines to me. And I wouldn't be surprised if opening this door somehow opened them all. What do you think?"

Cosette frowned. "It's a risk we can't afford to take." She balled her hands into fists, and both were enveloped in fire. "I think I might know a way through, but I'm going to need some time to prepare."

She pointed behind the two elves. "There's some mushrooms on the walls right there. Those might be able to help."

While Vinye and Malys busied themselves with collecting the bright green fungi, Cosette fished in her pack for more potions, looking for one particular color of label in particular. Eventually, she found a small bottle with a turquoise-colored slip of paper on the stopper. She drank this; and felt her magickal reserves expand a little.

Then, once she had a sizable supply of the fungus, she consumed some of them. They tasted bitter, almost inedible, but the effect was immediate; the fire crackling in her hands was burning that much brighter. Not wasting any time before the mushrooms' effects wore off, Cosette went to work.

"_Meht, hekem, quam, iya … tayem-hekem, seht, cess, payem … hefhed!"_ she chanted, resting both of her flaming fists on the stone floor.

The smooth, worn surface beneath her feet glowed in a blaze of orange light, and then solidified into a complex series of curved lines and spiky sigils. It wasn't a perfect rune by any means, but hopefully it would be enough.

"All right," she finally nodded. "I've done what I can. On three, we open the door and make like a Nord after his mead. Everybody ready?"

The two elves nodded their assent.

"One … "

They took a collective giant step backward, nearly pushing their backs against the door.

"Two … "

Malys and Vinye each raised a hand, prepared to push the doors open at a moment's notice.

"Three!"

With all their might, the two elves pushed, and the doors groaned open. At the same time, true to Malys' prediction, every single aperture lining the pipes burst open, and at least a dozen automatons—mostly spiders, but with some deadly spheres near the back as well—sprang from their ports.

"Go, go, go!" Cosette herded them into the hallway on the other side of the threshold.

"Close it close it _close it_!" she barked seconds later.

Malys and Vinye pushed … and the doors didn't budge one inch. Nothing moved at all, save for the advancing wave of machines on the other side.

Malys swore under her breath. "Leave it to the dwarves to double-trap their own door," she murmured.

"Wards up, everyone!" Cosette cried, knowing they all had about a few seconds before they either survived or died. "Brace yourselves!"

She barely remembered to form her own magickal shield when the rune went off with a colossal BANG that showered the trio with golden shrapnel and burning gusts of wind. The shockwave from the detonation knocked them all back several yards, even with the full strength of their wards.

Once the noise from the explosion had faded, Malys stirred.

"Unh … " she groaned. "Was that a big enough rune for you, Cozy? I think J'zargo's starting to rub off on you."

Cosette did not stir—more out of choice than anything. "If I had the strength, I'd strangle you right now," she mumbled. "Even with those mushrooms and that potion I drank, I didn't have enough to make a perfectly contained rune—and even _that_ sapped almost all of my strength. So if you don't mind," she said, voice dripping with tired sarcasm, "I'd just like to lie here for a moment and look at all the stars in my eyes."

There was a long pause. "What stars?" Vinye was heard to say.

"Yes, may J'zargo see them, too?"

Everyone sat bolt upright at the familiar voice.

J'zargo and Tolfdir strode into the hallway as if they were simply enjoying a refreshing walk. The grinning Khajiit looked particularly stout around his robes, which jangled noisily with every step he took. Clearly he had been having the time of his life in stripping Rkund to its rafters.

"We thought it was high time we caught up," Tolfdir said. "Sorry that we didn't meet up sooner—J'zargo wanted to take his time."

"So. We. See." Cosette was grating her teeth so hard she was in danger of turning them to powder.

"It is amazing what one can find swept away in the corners of Dwarven ruins," J'zargo said happily, oblivious to Cosette's fury. "Many powerful trinkets … many of them small enough to fit in one's pockets as well."

"Would that include your arse?" Malys heard Cosette mutter under her breath. "'Cause I can think of one pocket where I'd like to _fit my sword_ … damned lazy cat … "

"I think this might be the Reliquary," Vinye said, studying the door for a long moment.

"What makes you so sure?" Tolfdir asked.

"A 'Reliquary' might mean something particularly significant to the Dwemer … or particularly valuable to anyone else," Vinye amended, suspecting that would entice J'zargo more than anything. "I can't imagine why any other door would be so heavily protected."

"And yet three mages made it through," Cosette said boldly. "If that's what the Dwemer call heavily protected, then clearly they weren't as advanced as everyone thinks."

"I should very much hope you don't end up eating those words, Miss Ionsaithe." Tolfdir's voice was unusually apprehensive as the five mages delved further into the ruin.

* * *

Vinye's assumption about the Reliquary soon proved to be correct. There was nothing to explicitly suggest it, of course, seeing as how none of them were any good at reading the Dwemer runes engraved here and there into the stone. But the layout of the chamber they had just entered—after disembarking from another lift that took them even deeper than the first one—could not be anything else.

The room was dimly lit, with only a single chandelier providing illumination. The shadows made it impossible to gauge the exact size of the room; there was no hint of walls, and only the barest indication of an immensely high ceiling. Three raised platforms were arranged in a circle around the exact center, which was raised slightly higher than the platforms were; there was nothing on them except ruined books.

"Something smells foul," J'zargo whispered, paws wrapped in fire.

Malys agreed—the air was stifling, much hotter than it had any right to be. It was almost impossible to breathe.

"We must be very far below the surface indeed," Tolfdir ventured. "It's quite possible that even the Dwemer couldn't dig any deeper then where we are now. The heat under this stone must be unbearable."

"I'm going to risk some more light," Vinye said. Her hand glowed with a blinding white color. Before anyone could stop her, the Altmer had fired a slow-moving ball of magelight at what she could only hope was the nearest wall. Within ten seconds, the magelight had found one.

The wall moved.

Suddenly, massive golden gears began to turn. Stone ground against stone as formless shapes moved in the darkness beyond. Fires leaped up in braziers, bathing the entire chamber in blinding light.

And Tolfdir, J'zargo, Vinye, Malys, and Cosette stared in awe at no less than _three_ titanic Dwemer centurions—created in their masters' image, but more than twice as tall and infinitely more durable—plodding out of their gantries within the walls. Each of them had a hammer the size of an anvil built into one enormous arm, and an equally large halberd implanted in the other. Steam billowed out from their shoulders and all of their joints.

Beneath their bulk, spheres and spiders skittered about, leveling their own weapons at the five intruders, while more of the infernal mechanical wasps buzzed over their heads. The mages were surrounded within moments, and any possible exits—seen and unseen—were now completely cut off.

Cosette's beady eyes darted from one machine to the next. "I won't take back what I said earlier," she said ruefully, bringing her Forsworn blade to an attack stance and readying a firebolt in her free hand.

"No one's blaming you for anything," Vinye rebuked her, lightning spells at the ready. "I was the one who rushed in here, you know."

Malys chuckled in spite of herself. "First to ten buys first round at the Frozen Hearth. Sound good?"

"J'zargo will take that bet," said the Khajiit, lightning in one paw, and fire in the other. "These trinkets will buy much mead for us, he is sure."

Malys hefted her own fists, ice magic at the ready—even though she knew it would do nothing whatsoever. "Then let's get—"

A new, unexpected noise echoed through the chamber, like a giant engine slowing to a halt.

"—started?"

The automatons shifted in their stance; the centurions and spheres sagged forward, arms hanging limply at their sides. The spiders and wasps continued to hover, but now there was no indication that they perceived the mages as intruders—or even that they were even aware of their existence.

And then another, even more unexpected, noise emerged.

"Fascinating, aren't they?"

The mages whirled around, looking for the source of the voice.

"No one knows how they've survived for as long as they have," said the voice: a deep, gravelly baritone that seemed to meld with the droning of the distant machines. "And yet, they are only the _least_ of the Dwemer's creations."

Malys heard footsteps. "Who are you?" she said on reflex. "Show yourself!"

A sharp intake of breath came from the shadows, and the footsteps grew louder. "Ah. You must be the mages of Winterhold. I'm glad you could join me here today."

And finally, the owner of the voice stepped out into the main chamber, almost as though he'd walked right through the walls. He pulled back the hood of his modest, dirt-brown robes over his head, revealing himself to be a bald Dunmer with a grayish-black beard tied into a knot. His face was wizened, and yet charismatic as well—there was no telling if he was thirty years old or three hundred.

But Malys was especially drawn to his eyes. Where most Dunmer had eyes that were stained like blood from the eternal curse of Azura, his burned like fire. They were unquestionably the most dangerous-looking eyes she had seen on _any_ race, let alone on a Dunmer, and she instinctively knew that this person was a very powerful wizard indeed—perhaps even on the level of the Telvanni masters.

"My name is Solyn," the Dunmer introduced himself. "Welcome to the Reliquary of Rkund—a hidden city that even the fastidious Dwemer did not know existed. It is here that the greatest artifacts that the Dwemer had ever created were to be sealed forever—after they were stolen from the hands of Lord Kagrenac himself."

"Is that so?" Tolfdir said, raising a bushy eyebrow. "And how would you know all this, Mr. Solyn?"

Solyn laughed. "Solyn will do, thank you. But if you wish, then you may call me Mr. Aren."

Tolfdir started. "Aren?" he said, instantly alert.

"Now you're beginning to see why, of all the institutions devoted to the research and practice of the arcane in Tamriel, I called the College to this incredible discovery," Solyn said. "They and I have something in common. Or, more to the point, _used to _have some_one_.

"You see, the predecessor to your Arch-Mage of Winterhold—the late Savos Aren—was my father."

* * *

_Next chapter: Solyn makes a lucrative proposition to the mages of Winterhold. Meanwhile, Malys and the College each have an unexpected—and unwelcome—guest to deal with._


	5. IV

IV

It took a few moments for Solyn's words to sink in. The sounds of the Dwarven machinery seemed to magnify tenfold in the pause in conversation.

"Your … father?" Tolfdir finally asked. Gone was his jovial, avuncular attitude; now, the old Nord looked visibly rattled. "I don't remember Savos Aren ever talking about his family."

Solyn's face fell only a little—if he was disappointed, he certainly wasn't letting it show. "I can't say I'm surprised," he said heavily. "For the longest time, I tried asking him, son to father, to move on and change his mind. Perhaps if he had, House Telvanni might well have made a damn good wizard out of him.

"But Savos was adamant about Winterhold—even after the Great Collapse that nearly destroyed the city. He told me—rather forcefully at that—that his decision had nothing to do with proving himself through magic, but through acts of good faith for Winterhold and its people, so they might be able to stop blaming the College on that unfortunate incident."

He sighed. "Perhaps his heart was in the right place," he admitted. "Then again, he said the same words to me when I told him I had more interest in the history and culture of the Dwemer than in magic. Suffice to say, Savos and I got along less and less as we grew older."

Malys saw Tolfdir and J'zargo exchange glances. She'd not heard of this Savos Aren before, but clearly these two had been very close to him on some level in the past. It was clear that they hadn't been earlier informed of any of this—and they did not look pleased to hear it.

A sudden grating noise jolted her out of her pondering: the Dwemer machines were beginning to move again. The centurions were flexing their arms threateningly, and the wasps' soul gem 'stingers' were starting to crackle with electricity. Whatever this change in behavior implied, Malys wasn't sure she wanted to see for herself.

Solyn noticed this, too, and immediately his arms began to glow a bright green, all the way to his shoulders. He waved them this way and that for a few seconds, before slamming them down on the carved stone floor. A huge green sphere of energy erupted from the point of contact, washing over the automata like they were never there.

Then it was gone, as swiftly as it had been born, leaving only a faint green haze hanging over each automaton.

"Calming magic," Malys whispered in realization. _He's controlling the automatons with just illusion magic?_ Vinye rounded on her, and the Dunmer knew she'd come to the same conclusion. _That's master-level magic, at the _least!

_Who _is_ this elf?_

"That's impossible," Vinye said, shaking her head. "Automatons are just metal and steam. They shouldn't even _have_ a mind to calm."

Solyn smiled. "I won't bore you with the details," he said, "but it can be done. I will say this, however—it's not exactly something every mage has the raw skill to accomplish. Such a feat is very rare, even among the Telvanni."

Malys couldn't resist a sidelong glare at Cosette. "'Illusion doesn't sound all that useful,' huh?" she smirked.

The look the Breton gave her in return would have burned through solid ebony.

"So what in the world brought you to this little corner of Skyrim?" Tolfdir asked, clearly anxious to change the subject. "You said that even the Dwemer didn't know about this city?"

Solyn nodded. "Correct. I'm a scholar of the Dwemer in Morrowind, although the Argonian invasion forced me to, shall we say, travel abroad for a while. It wasn't until recently that I came across a set of tomes inside a Dwemer ruin in the Redoran District. They were ruined through and through, but I managed to translate enough of the books to discover the existence, and the location, of this citadel. Further research alluded to a rebellion among the Dwemer clans, shortly before the end of the War of the First Council, and their subsequent disappearance."

"A rebellion?" Tolfdir was intrigued. "Over what, precisely?"

Solyn was silent for a moment. "How much do you know," he said, "about Kagrenac's Tools?"

Malys gasped. She indeed knew what they were—every Dunmer knew of the profane Tools that had changed their ancestors, the Chimer. "They were some of the most powerful artifacts the Dwemer ever made," she said softly. "Keening, Sunder, and Wraithguard—they were created by the Tonal Architects to control the Heart of Lorkhan and ascend to godhood."

"And we all know how that turned out," Solyn sighed mournfully. "There was a popular theory among the dwarves before their disappearance that using the Tools on the Heart would lead to their undoing—a theory that was rebutted by Bthuand Mzahnch and his discourse, _The Egg of Time_. Well, we scholars would say rebutted—although a number of Dwemer instead believed at the time that it had been _forcibly suppressed_."

Vinye still looked skeptical, but her expression was slowly turning into a kind of quiet awe. "Are you saying the Dwemer censored the majority opinion of their entire population?" she said.

"If those tomes I found were any indication, then yes," answered Solyn. "As you can well imagine, some of the Dwemer didn't like that, and a respectable band of them deserted their clans in disgust. They journeyed to this place, and they constructed this entire ruin in secret. After it was completed, they planned to steal Kagrenac's Tools from the Chief Tonal Architect himself, and bring them here to be sealed away for all eternity."

Malys was thunderstruck. Looking around, she saw similar expressions on Cosette, Vinye and J'zargo. Tolfdir, however, still looked very worried, and she couldn't blame him. _Stealing Kagrenac's own Tools—that's thievery worthy of the Guild, if that's true_.

Solyn motioned to the three platforms around him. "Please, see for yourself," he invited.

Malys felt her legs moving numbly to the nearest podium. From a distance, it looked unremarkable. But now that she was much closer to it, she could see a T-shaped alcove carved into the rock—large enough, she surmised, to hold a fairly small hammer.

And then, as if that hammer had just delivered a crushing blow to her chest, she staggered back.

_Sunder._

Suddenly Malys was sprinting to the next platform, and out of the corner of her eye she could see the others following suit, interested to see why she was suddenly so excited. This next plinth also bore a unique indentation, just the right shape and size to fit a large dagger.

_Keening._

By the time she reached the third platform, Malys already knew what would await her, and yet the shock and awe still came. This carving was larger than the other two: a pair of armored, life-size hands, folded together in a V as if in prayer.

_Wraithguard._

"By Azura," she whispered, unable to believe this was happening, that this was all true. _The end of the Dwemer … the transformation of the Chimer … all of it caused by three little tools. And they could have been here, right here in front of me …_

"Yes," Solyn said, and Malys wondered if he had read her mind. "It's almost enough to wish the Dwemer were still here, isn't it?

"Unfortunately," he said sorrowfully, "for the Dwemer, there was no _if_—only _when_. The rebels knew from the beginning that their actions would eventually be discovered, no matter how much planning they did; they could only hope they succeeded before they were exposed. Alas, the tomes I translated say that Rkund was sacked not twenty years after the first stone was laid. Its architects and citizens—even the women and children—were dragged back to Morrowind, and summarily executed."

Vinye looked unusually pale as she bowed her head, and Cosette wore an expression that suggested she'd suddenly experienced a very nasty taste in her mouth.

"Which brings us back to where we began," Solyn said, "and why I have called you all here."

"Go on," Tolfdir said apprehensively.

"For the longest time while I studied the Dwemer," Solyn said, "I entertained the slightest possibility that maybe—just maybe—there would come a day when the Dwemer would return to Tamriel, and all the mysteries they left behind would be solved at last. But ever since discovering Rkund and its history, I've begun to question if such an endeavor would be worth it in the end. The Dwemer did great and wondrous things, it is true, but they also committed many atrocities against their own race and others. And the risks, I fear, would far outweigh the rewards.

"So I've decided to give up pursuing the subject of their return. It pains me to say it," Solyn amended, seeing Tolfdir pull a double-take in confusion, "but there are some secrets that should remain so."

"But … the _Dwemer_," Vinye breathed, perhaps unable to believe that such a powerful wizard could be defeated simply by sheer reluctance. "How can you just _give up_ on them? Don't you at least want to know _where_ they disappeared?"

Solyn fixed her with a stern glare. "There are mysteries of Aetherius, young mage, that neither the Daedra nor the Divines will ever solve," he said solemnly, "and the disappearance of the dwarves is one of them."

Vinye's argument died on her lips, and she closed her mouth. Deep down, Malys knew Solyn was right, but there was one more question that was bothering her. "What does all that have to do with us?"

"Straight to business, aren't you," Solyn said approvingly. "Very well. I will remain here and see this excavation through to the end. Until the last bit of rock has been cleared, which I estimate will take some more months, I would like you and your College to bring as many relics of the Dwemer as you can spare to Rkund. I will make sure your institution is handsomely compensated for your efforts."

Immediately upon hearing the phrase "handsomely compensated," J'zargo emptied all his pockets in one fell swoop, and a massive amount of gears, levers, and other Dwarven trinkets Malys didn't recognize fell to the stone floor with a cacophonous rattling noise. The Dunmer laughed in spite of herself, and Cosette merely slapped her scarred hand over her eyes.

Solyn didn't seem fazed at all. "I adore initiative as much as the next mer," he smiled, "but I'm not looking for just any old Dwarven artifacts. Only the oldest and most powerful of their creations will do."

That was when it hit Malys. "You want Kagrenac's Tools."

Everyone was silent, and—if only for the slightest moment—Solyn looked understandably unnerved to see five pairs of eyes fixed accusingly on him. But he recovered quickly.

"Yes," he said, surprisingly casual given the circumstances. "But there are older, and perhaps more powerful relics as well. Many Dwemer died to make this Reliquary possible—and I can think of no better way to honor them than to fulfill their dream at last. Kagrenac's Tools, and all the other paragons of the dwarves, will be sealed here forever—and Tamriel shall be all the safer for it."

He looked Tolfdir in the eye. "Do we have a proposition, then?" he asked.

Malys could almost see the wheels turning in the Master Wizard's mind. Surely he knew as well as Malys did that the locations of the Tools had been lost. The last to possess them had been the Nerevarine, and that legendary hero had journeyed far to the east, it was said, and perished in Akavir two hundred years ago.

If she was honest, Malys was interested in finding the Tools, but not looking forward to finding all three. Those artifacts had given the Tribunal godhood, but at the expense of their own people. Solyn was right to honor the Dwemer and the Dunmer for what the Tools had done to both races, she felt. But the prospect of their reunion—even if he was trying to bury the proverbial hatchet—was too much to think about.

Toldfir finally stepped forward, his mind apparently made up. "I think it would be best if we returned to Winterhold for the time being," he said definitively, "and asked our Arch-Mage to consider your offer. We'll send a courier with our decision by week's end."

For a moment, Solyn looked as though he wanted to negotiate terms for a little while longer before he cleared his throat. "All right, then," he said, smiling genially at Tolfdir. The old Nord didn't smile back. "I eagerly await it."

He nodded perfunctorily at the rest of the mages. "And I look forward to doing business with Winterhold's best and brightest," he added, before stepping off into the shadows.

"We should probably take our leave," Tolfdir murmured, glancing left and right at the charmed Dwemer machines. "There's no telling when that calming magic is going to wear off."

Malys and the others were only too happy to agree.

* * *

None of them remembered how long it took them to find the exit to the lost Dwarven city—it might have been many hours, or mere minutes. Each of the five mages had too much on their minds to really pay attention.

"This could be beneficial for us," Malys heard J'zargo say in a hushed tone to Tolfdir, as they rounded the corner to the final set of doors that separated them from Skyrim. "Perhaps more so for the College, and even for the city of Winterhold."

Tolfdir said nothing.

"This one is troubled, perhaps?" J'zargo asked cautiously. "Khajiit will listen."

"Mm … I'm afraid I'm not quite sure," the Master Wizard murmured. "I don't know if I should just brush it off as an old man's intuition … but that wizard, Solyn. For him to just come out of the blue the way he did … "

"Then you think Solyn was not being honest."

"I wish I knew for certain," Tolfdir mused. "But you were at Savos' funeral, J'zargo. You saw how few people outside of the College came to the service. Why, the only dark elves there were Drevis and dear Brelyna. Not a hint of his family at all!"

J'zargo smoothed his mustache with a claw, apparently deep in thought. "Like father, like son," he finally said. "Perhaps Savos' father did not approve of his decision either, and disowned him for it?"

There was a long period of silence.

"J'zargo, my boy," Tolfdir said, his voice tired but final, "I think, for right now, it would be best if we not discussed this any further."

The Khajiit seemed to take the hint, and Malys only caught the slightest nod from him.

They pulled open the final doors, and Malys had to shield her eyes as the bright sun blinded her. _That was odd_, she thought. _We were in there for who knows how long—I thought it would be nighttime by now!_

"Hold it right there."

It was only at that moment that Malys realized that it _wasn't_ daytime—and that that light _wasn't_ coming from the last rays of the now-setting sun.

No less than ten guards—from Riften, judging by the color of their cloaks and the crossed daggers painted on their shields—had surrounded the mages in a semicircle, brandishing every kind of weapon imaginable from battleaxes and torches to bows and arrows. Tolfdir immediately raised his hands in the air, and indicated the others should all do the same.

"What is the meaning of this?" J'zargo said indignantly.

"What does it look like, cat?" one of the guards shot back. "You're under arrest, the lot of you!"

Malys went rigid. _Under arrest?!_

"On whose authority?" Cosette asked defiantly.

"Mine." The bright light that Malys had previously assumed to be from the sun dimmed suddenly, and revealed another man in the middle of the formation, wearing a yellowish-brown robe and a triumphant smirk.

He was advanced in years, Malys could see, perhaps even as much as Tolfdir, and his eyes were a uniform milky white. But the strength of the light emanating from his hand left her in no doubt that this man was far more than just an ordinary guard—and perhaps more than just an ordinary mage.

"Malys Aryon," said the old man. He was looking right at her, in spite of his blindness, and the Dunmer instinctively knew this was not so much a question as it was an order.

"Who wants to know?" she replied warily.

The old man smiled with the leer of the cat that'd just caught the mouse. "In the name of the Lady Meridia," he said, "I arrest you, 'mage of Winterhold', under suspicion of the crimes of seditious conspiracy—and vampirism."

* * *

_One day earlier_

"Vampirism?" Colette Marence showed genuine shock at the word. "You're telling us one of our novices is infected with vampirism?"

"Vampirism is not some mere _infection_," Lucius told her, as he paced the floor of Arch-Mage Grimnir's quarters. "It is a blight on this world; one that should never have existed, nor should have any right to."

"Nevertheless," the hooded Nord to Colette's right gently said, "this is a very serious allegation you are making, priest. I should hope you have some proof of this."

Lucius cleared his throat. "The night before this one," he began, "two bodies were recovered on the edge of the city limits. The town guard deemed them to be vampires, and thought it wise to send for me."

Faralda jerked her head upwards; Lucius made a mental note of this reaction. "Those two bodies I saw … I had thought they were merely bandits. And now you're saying—"

"They weren't," Lucius finished for her. "I was able to identify the telltale signs of Sanguinare Vampiris. Those so-called 'bandits' were Volkihar vampires. Their activity has increased of late, and they represent a more serious threat to Skyrim than ever. Such a serious threat, I feel, warrants such a serious accusation, Arch-Mage—and demands equally serious action!"

"And we still demand proof of this accusation," Phinis Gestor said heatedly. "And if you don't offer it to us this instant, I will personally have you escorted from the grounds until such a time that you do!"

"Phinis," Grimnir grunted warningly. The Breton sucked air through his teeth, but said nothing further.

Lucius growled a little bit—he had expected such learned and experienced mages to recognize the severity of the situation. "I studied the ways of the vampire as a Vigilant of Stendarr, before I took up Meridia's burden," he explained. "These creatures seldom travel alone, and almost always in groups of three.

"Knowing this, and having examined—and summarily disposed of—the two bodies, I then made for your College to seek the third. The guards had informed me that someone had arrived at your gates, on or about the same time as the vampires' attempted attack."

"'Attempted?'" Faralda frowned suspiciously. " … How exactly did these vampires die?"

"My examinations revealed massive puncture wounds to their vital organs. They were more consistent with magickal means of attack than from physical weapons. Ice magic, more to the point."

"So a novice fended off two vampires?" Phinis crossed his arms. "All that seems to prove is that we've picked up a damn good novice."

"Although," Faralda said, "I seem to remember that Dunmer being injured when I tested her for entry."

"Dunmer?" Lucius instantly became alert—now they were making progress. "What Dunmer?"

"The last novice I let through was a Dunmer. It's possible she might be who you're talking about."

Lucius looked Grimnir directly in the eye—or at least, where he thought there might be eyes. "Where is she now?" he demanded.

Grimnir pondered this. "I would imagine she's in the Rift," he said, "within the Dwarven ruins of Rkund. She is with a number of our other mages there."

Lucius swore under his breath, and silently begged Meridia's pardon. "Then you have made things infinitely more complicated than they had any right to be," he said. "A vampire is a serious threat—a Dunmer vampire is even more so. And you, Arch-Mage, chose to commit an incredible act of folly, and let it loose!"

Colette was incensed. "How dare you! We had no prior knowledge that this Dunmer might possibly be a vampire!"

"Nor do you have any knowledge on the matter, Master Anglinius," Faralda added. "Thus far, all you've offered for proof is conjecture. And you're asking us to hand over one of our own students on such a flimsy basis?"

Lucius sprang to his feet, his sightless eyes sparking with fury. "I am a priest of Meridia!" he protested. "I am bound by honor and duty to carry out her wishes and purge this world of all traces of the false life! I am not obligated to answer to your mundane institution!"

Colette lost her temper. "You are obligated to abide by our judgment!" she shouted, rising from her chair as well. "And we judge this to be an internal matter. Neither you, the Vigil, nor your mistress have any power in this!"

"You are aiding and abetting a creature of the night!" bellowed Lucius. "I would have you judged as such for allowing this corruption to flourish on Tamriel!"

"ENOUGH!"

Grimnir's roar was so loud that it shook the rafters. Colette and Lucius quieted down immediately, and turned to look at the Arch-Mage, who was quietly rising to his feet.

"Madame Marence, you will not make such decisions on my behalf," Grimnir rumbled from under his hood. "Master Anglinius, you will _not_ antagonize my staff _or_ my students under _any_ circumstances."

He heaved a sigh, and sat back down. "Now—that having been said," he continued calmly, "I consider this within the College's territory. Therefore, we will conduct our own investigation into the matter. However,"—Grimnir held up a gloved hand in Colette's direction—"however, I will allow you to journey to Rkund, and escort our mages back within College grounds. I trust that they will come to no harm."

Lucius said nothing, but remained at his feet. Colette directed a very angry look at him.

"And a word of warning, priest of Meridia," Grimnir said, the already low temperature of the chamber dropping further still with every word he spoke. "One of the mages there is my Master Wizard; I am already expecting a full report from him on his findings. And if I learn from him that my trust in you has been misplaced, then neither the Daedra nor the Divines will save you from _me_."

He stood up abruptly. "That will be all." He turned to Colette. "Show him to the Hall of Countenance; he can sleep in Mirabelle's old quarters for the night."

"Yes, _sir_," said Colette acidly, stalking out of the chamber. Lucius followed after her.

* * *

"I think you'd best explain yourself," Tolfdir said warily, crossing the distance between himself and Malys in a few strides and standing protectively behind her. "Vampirism is a very serious accusation to make."

"So I've been told," Lucius Anglinius said dismissively. "Your College made that very clear." He proceeded to explain, for the third time in two days, the circumstances of his initial arrival in Winterhold.

Malys grew more flabbergasted with every word he spoke. She had assumed the vampires were the stuff of legend—they were virtually unknown in Morrowind, though she had heard the old stories about the Quarra and Berne tribes. Now, to hear that not only did they exist, but that she had killed two of them? She was unsure whether to feel elated or terrified at this news.

"When did you first arrive at the College?" Lucius asked.

_Terrified it is, then_, she thought. "Um … three nights ago?"

"When did you first encounter the vampires in Winterhold?"

Malys frowned. "The same night I came to the College," she said awkwardly, as though it was common knowledge. "Are you trying to say they infected me?"

"It wouldn't matter," Vinye piped up, off to Malys' left. "Sanguinare Vampiris isn't the same as vampirism—not unless you spend too much time without treating it. Cosette over here"—she indicated the Breton—"gave her an antidote for a skeever bite she had earlier this morning; I watched her make it, and I watched Malys take it."

"Why should we believe you, Thalmor bitch?" one of the guards said brashly, leveling his sword at her.

For a long moment, Malys thought those would be his last words; so terrible was the look on Vinye's olive face. But the high elf inhaled deeply and stared at the guard with cold fury. "Were I as civilized as you," she whispered, loud enough for him to hear, "I would _burn_ you for your words, and _burn_ your ashes until _nothing_ of you was left."

"Now, now," Lucius said, smiling like a father chastising his squabbling children. "There's no need for any of us to be so vulgar. I did not come all this way just so we could open old wounds between nations."

As he lowered his blade, Malys heard the guard mumble what sounded like "_Speak for yourself_."

"Well, there you are," she said, feeling a little better in spite of the continued tension. "I'm sorry to say this, but I'm afraid you came out all this way for nothing. If these vampires even infected me at all, I was cured this morning. So, if you'll just be a _good boy_ and send us on our way—"

"I'm afraid it's not that simple," Lucius interrupted. That smile was still on his face, but the exasperation had been replaced by something like exhilaration—something that made Malys even more worried. "Where were you on the night before you came to Winterhold?"

Malys stopped. That was a question she hadn't been expecting. Neither, apparently, had Tolfdir. "How is that even relevant?" he demanded.

"All in good time, Master Wizard," Lucius said knowingly. "Now, please answer my question, and we won't have to do anything we might come to regret."

Realizing she had little choice but to comply, Malys thought … and thought …

… and thought.

Nothing.

"I … " she finally stammered, shaking her head, "I don't know."

_Bad girl_.

_Nothing_.

Lucius furrowed his brow. "Surely you must remember something," he said, in what he must have assumed was a reassuring voice.

I_ remember._ The wicked voice echoed in her head, hissing like a snake.

_You again?!_

_I remember _everything_._

"I don't … I don't remember." She was beginning to shiver again.

_Then be a_ good girl. _Open it up._

_Why can't I remember?_

Her joints had locked into place; her feet were frozen to the stone.

"I don't know," she mumbled again. "I don't remember … "

_Rip it apart. You've done it before._

_I can't—_

"Where is the nest from whence you came, vampire?" Lucius shouted. Flecks of spittle landed on her cheek and in her ear. "_Tell me!_"

_Tear it to shreds, you lying little_ whore …

_Nothing_—

"_I don't know!_"

It was only when she screamed the words that Malys realized she was crying. Tolfdir immediately came up to put a comforting arm around her, and he rounded on Lucius with undisguised anger.

"Now look what you've done!" he cried. "Have you no sense of tact or shame? Would you be little more than a common bully to satisfy your mistress? It's perfectly clear this poor woman has no idea what you're talking about!"

If Lucius was at all moved by Malys' display of emotion, he didn't show any sign at all, other than his heavy, barely controlled breathing. "She is being deliberately uncooperative," he said. "And you, Master Wizard, are treading a very dangerous line. Your Arch-Mage has ordered me to escort you back to your College, that they might begin their own investigation regarding _her_."

The wizened Nord straightened a little at this, clearly surprised.

"As for myself," Lucius went on, still taking heaving breaths, "I am not persuaded. There are too many unknowns, all of which will yield no proof whatsoever if we continue to bicker like unruly children. Fortunately, I have a more … _definitive_ way to separate the un-life from the living."

He reached into his robe, and drew out a shining sword. It looked a little short for a man his size, but he still looked as though he could use it. The guard was perfectly round, and almost nonexistent against the wide, sizzling blade; in its center, suspended in midair between the blade and the handle, was a blinding orb of light.

"This is Dawnbreaker," Lucius said reverently. "An ebony blade bathed in the light of the Colored Rooms, where Meridia makes her realm, and which burns away all manner of corruption and false life."

The mages immediately tensed up, and flames licked Tolfdir's hands. "Now you go too far!" he declared. "You will not kill her simply to prove that you were right all along!"

"I don't intend to kill her," Lucius said simply, raising the blade level with Malys' neck, but keeping it a good six inches away. The Dunmer did not find anything about his words or actions relaxing. "If she has been cured, or was never affected at all, then she will be unscathed. But if the foul taint of the Volkihar lies in her blood—or indeed, that of any other of their breed … well, _that_ punishment is not mine to give," he shrugged.

He raised the light below the blade to his lips. "May Meridia's radiance cleanse you … "

Suddenly, that light blossomed into a beacon that shone like the sun. An eerie, glowing energy rushed along the blade, lengthening into a second, larger blade more appropriate for a broadsword.

" … body, mind, and soul," Lucius intoned. He twirled Dawnbreaker effortlessly, and _sliced_.

Malys only had time to register the mages' cries of disbelief before the ethereal blade passed through her neck like it wasn't even there. A force like a hot, blunt knife followed in its wake, and she staggered to the ground in shock.

The first thing she noticed as she hit the stone floor was that she felt the impact, first on her back, and then her head. The second thing she noticed was that this meant the nerves in her spine had not been compromised by the blade, meaning she felt every bit of that painful blunt-knife force traveling through her body, which in turn meant—

_I'm … not dead?_

Quickly as her aching body could let her, she clambered up to her feet. Lucius was staring at her with an odd look on his face, like a heavy weight had just been swung into it. The rest of the mages, and every single one of the guards as well, were dividing their attention between him and Malys with the same look of bewilderment.

"You are clean," Lucius finally declared, though it was clear that even he didn't want to believe his own words. But Malys could see the gears turning in his head; she knew as well as he did that to contradict the verdict of a Daedric Prince was tantamount to blasphemy. There was only one thing he could do now.

"Stand down," he said to the guards, who promptly sheathed their weapons—some more reluctantly than others. Malys let out a breath she didn't realize she was holding.

Tolfdir had recovered from the shock, and now looked very angry indeed. "Well, I hope you're satisfied," he snapped, brushing off his robes as he glared at Lucius. "The Arch-Mage will be informed of this harassment. And there will be no further investigation into this matter, I can promise you that—on our end, _or_ on yours!"

He turned to the mages. "We're leaving for Merryfair Farm," he said, without any trace of his former geniality and bluster. "We'll take the first carriage from Riften at dawn … and I think it would be best if we avoided any more _unwelcome distractions_ during our journey," he added, looking behind his shoulder at Lucius, who still hadn't moved from his spot, and was gazing from Malys to Dawnbreaker and back again in a strange way.

"Come along, then," Tolfdir said quietly, a little more calm and gentle now, "before Meridia's 'faithful priest' has another half-baked reason to hold us here."

And on that note, the five mages set on their return journey. The sun had already set by the time Rkund disappeared from view, but none of them wanted to risk a look back at the shrinking speck that was Lucius.

Though she had no doubt that everyone was at least incredibly confused about all the things that had transpired today, Malys' thoughts were in especial turmoil—and her brush with death was only the least reason for this.

She didn't want to talk about her sudden lapse of memory with Tolfdir. For one thing, he would probably dismiss it as a result of the pressure from Lucius. And while that was true—to a point—Malys was less and less sure about how 'sudden' this loss of memory really was.

The loss was not a complete one, thankfully; while she had been frantically dredging for something to remember, the taste of the hackle-lo ash yams her mother loved to serve had appeared on her tongue, as fresh as if she'd just downed a whole steaming plateful of them. She remembered Skyrim, too; she remembered the snow and biting cold, a sharp contrast to the hell that Morrowind was now—

_And_ she remembered Windhelm.

_"Go back under the ash where you belong!"_

She shivered. First, there had been Gjavar, that bandit from the other day, and that … _thing_ inside her. Now there had been this blackout in her memory, and that thing was talking to her now? Malys failed to repress a shudder.

_What is _happening_ to me?_

The question never left Malys' mind, even as they reached Merryfair Farm and pitched their bedrolls for the night, or even as she lay there under the stars, her red eyes wide open in fear, refusing to shut for an instant.

* * *

_Outside Fort Kastav_

"Malys, you look awful."

Sunlight crept over the mountaintops as the mages' carriage traveled over the road to Winterhold at a fair clip (Tolfdir had paid the driver extra to go double time). The Dunmer had woken to Cosette sneaking glances under her hood, and the Breton was looking at her with an unusual amount of concern.

Malys knew Cosette was right—she had slept very little last night, and very badly. She had dreamed Gjavar had returned with some friends and abducted her in her sleep. She'd woken up in Windhelm, inside an alley within the Grey Quarter, surrounded by narrow, burning eyes and fanged mouths that screamed curses and threats at her in the same voice she always imagined the "other Malys" to speak in. She had tried to escape the city, but the faceless, roiling mob had cornered her at every turn. Then it had solidified into the emotionless, ghostly face of Lucius, whose jaws—complete with hundreds of miniature Dawnbreakers for teeth—closed in around her, the blades piercing her flesh like needles. She had woken with a start, and had failed to get any more sleep until after they'd boarded the carriage at dawn.

"Tolfdir thought you were having a seizure," Cosette said grimly, after Malys had given an—albeit filtered—summary of her dream. "I thought he was going to paralyze you. For your own health," she added hastily as Malys became alarmed.

"It was just a dream," she shrugged—_oh, if wishes were fishes_, she thought ruefully. "Maybe once we get back to Winterhold, I can take a nice, long nap.

"Speaking of, where are we?" She yawned, stretching her arms as wide as she could—sleeping in armor was extremely uncomfortable, even if it was mer-made. The air was cold, and she felt snowflakes on her face. "Are we close to the College?"

"It'll be a while," Vinye answered from further up the wagon. "We passed Windhelm an hour ago—we'll be going through Kastav Pass soon. From there, it's a near straight shot back to Winterhold."

Malys exhaled. "That makes me feel a lot better," she said truthfully. "Those Stormcloaks weren't acting suspicious about us at all, were they, Vinye?"

The Altmer didn't answer.

"Vinye?"

Malys frowned, and looked at the front of the carriage. Vinye was not there; and she saw Tolfdir and J'zargo looking over the edge of the wagon. Both looked deeply concerned. Malys followed their lead—and puzzlement gave way to complete shock.

Vinye was sprinting alongside the cart, her long legs keeping her almost neck-and-neck with the carthorse's gait. Malys only saw her face for a split second; there was a grim determination in her green eyes and dead-set jaw, and no indication that the cart or its occupants existed to her. A burst of athleticism that Malys would never have expected from the high elf suddenly chose that moment to appear, and Vinye slowly pulled away from the cart.

Malys followed the road, and saw three humanoid forms in the distance, coming up in the opposite direction. They did not appear to be aware of anything out of the ordinary—least of all aware of Vinye, who as far as Malys could tell was heading straight for them.

"What in the world is she doing?" Tolfdir mused out loud.

His answer came in the form of a violent battle cry from Vinye, whose body was beginning to glow blue—followed by more magickal lightning than Malys had ever remembered seeing in her life. Lightning bolts flew in every direction; some of them hit the carriage, sending splinters of wood flying everywhere and scaring the carthorse to a skidding halt.

And in the thick of it, Malys could see Vinye locked in a battle to the death with the three figures, who—now that she had a closer look—were all high elves, wearing polished armor not unlike her own. One of them was already dead, his corpse cooling rapidly in a pile of snow.

Meanwhile, Vinye was turning and twisting like a miniature tornado, never stopping for a moment to catch her breath, or to give in to the thrill of killing, like the other Malys had done three days ago. No—what Malys was witnessing must have been familiar territory to Vinye; as they drew closer, she could see she was wearing the same impassive face as before. It was nothing short of a one-sided massacre—no, it was more than that, she thought.

It was _routine_.

She'd done this before, Malys realized—somehow, she knew how these elves fought, knew their strengths and weaknesses, their attacks and defenses; and Vinye knew how to exploit them all.

Lightning coiled around her hands like twin whips, now, thrashing this way and that without any care what they hit—or _who_, apparently, as Malys hastily ducked a bolt that sailed inches over her head. Another bolt ripped through a second elf's chest, reducing his heart to cinders in a mere moment.

With one last war cry, Vinye released a final blast of lightning from each hand. The bolts sailed in opposite directions, reduced the trees they bounced off to kindling, and electrocuted the last, luckless elf behind her. He toppled to the road, and the dagger that fell from his dead fingers clanged noisily on the stones.

There was absolute silence as the odor of charred flesh mixed with a dry, musty scent that smelled familiar to Malys: it was the same scent she had smelled that first night in the College—the scent of a thunderstorm.

No one wanted to say anything, especially not since Vinye was walking back to the carriage, as calmly as though this massacre had never even taken place. The Altmer took her seat, and took several deep, even breaths before she finally spoke.

"I would … _really_ appreciate it if you never mentioned this to _anyone_," she said to the group, as the carriage began to move again.

"What in the blazes was that all about?" hollered the driver.

"Nothing you need to worry about," Vinye snapped. "They're dead—they don't know anything now," she added under her breath.

Cosette peered over the carriage at one of the bodies. Her eyes widened. "Those were Thalmor Justiciars," she said, turning back to look accusingly at Vinye. "You'd better damn well believe we're worried."

Thalmor—the word stirred something in Malys' memory. "Those elves were with the Aldmeri Dominion?" she gasped.

The Justiciars were the enforcers of the Dominion, far off in the Summerset Isle. Arrogant and supremacist—and in the eyes of some Nords, genocidal—they were believed to be the true instigators behind the Stormcloak Rebellion, according to High King Varulf. Even before that insurrection, though, they had very few supporters in Skyrim.

But the fact remained that no one was enough of an idiot to threaten even one of the Thalmor with lethal force, let alone three. Malys was still looking wild-eyed at Vinye with this in mind.

"What is it with you and the Thalmor?" she asked, the encounter with that wood elf and that one town guard coming back to her. "Did they—" Malys paused here, uncertain of how to politely phrase this, "_get to_ your family? Is that why you're here, all by yourself?"

Vinye inclined her head, and Malys was surprised to see her green eyes swimming with tears. "No," Vinye said. Her voice was hard as a diamond. "You don't want to know what they did."

Malys recoiled at the forcefulness in Vinye's words.

"I don't know how long you've been in Skyrim," the Altmer continued. "I don't know if you take the words of the Nords at face value. But you probably hear them talk about the Thalmor—how oppressively they treat anyone who believes in nine Divines instead of eight, how they think Nords are nothing but diseased beasts to be put down."

She looked Malys in the eye. "And if you think they're exaggerating," she said, leaning far too close to her for comfort, "then you're _wrong_. Because the same thing happened in Alinor when they came to power, and it was still going on when I left for Tamriel. I _know_ what the Thalmor are truly capable of—because I was there to _see it_."

She returned to her resting position to blank stares from Malys and Cosette. The two mages exchanged looks with one another, and Malys shrugged.

_Might as well …_

"I don't like the Nords," the Dunmer said, "and I don't particularly care what they think about the Thalmor—or what they think about anything else, for that matter. Their _thoughts_ were enough to run me out of Windhelm a long time ago. I'm still not sure why they did it," she said—

You_ aren't—but _I_ am_.

_Oh, be quiet, you fetcher_.

—"I mean, they probably just didn't want any more dark elves in their city, for all I know … but one thing's for sure: I can never go back to Windhelm."

Vinye looked wounded. "Is that why you wanted to take the long way around the city?" she asked, referring to the first leg of their trek through Skyrim.

Malys nodded.

"And the armor—?"

She nodded again. "Like I said, you can never be too careful."

Both of them now turned to Cosette, who at first was taken aback by their expectant stares. "What?"

"Don't tell me you don't have anything to share with us," Malys said. "Go on—it can't be any worse than what we just shared, right?"

Cosette smiled daringly, and for a moment Malys wondered if she was about to eat her words. "There's not much to tell, really," she sighed. "I like the Nords about as much as the both of you, really. I lived in Markarth up until a few years ago, after the Stormcloaks took control of the city. There were a lot of changes made, I'll tell you what—some more deserved than others.

"See, the new Jarl—Thongvor Silver-Blood—was a ruthless leader. He had the guards detain anyone he suspected of being with the Forsworn, and everyone they came across got clapped in irons and thrown in Cidhna Mine beneath the city. Even the women and children weren't safe. I remember I saw a girl in there that couldn't have been more than ten—and there she was, swinging a pickaxe and chipping that goddamned silver out of the rocks."

"You _saw_ her?" Vinye frowned. " … Then you got arrested, too?"

Cosette nodded. "Mm-hm. Trumped-up assault charge. I was a Breton—a _half-blood_—and I knew that was enough reason for those racists to grab me. I knew if I protested, they'd kill me then and there. So I backed down, I did my time; when they let me out, I left Markarth for good—and it'll take more than all the septims in the world to make me go back."

Malys was surprised at Cosette's admission, if only pleasantly. This certainly explained why she tended to act so tough—or even outright hostile—around everyone else. The details inside the mine were less pleasant—Malys had no idea how anyone, even a Jarl, could brush off what amounted to child labor and false imprisonment.

Vinye, on the other hand … Malys shook her head. The way she had reacted to those Thalmor had invited more questions than answers. While Malys hadn't heard that much about them personally, she had to wonder if Vinye had really been telling the truth about how they acted around everyone else.

At any rate, the wind and cold of Skyrim seemed the _least_ harsh thing about the province now.

* * *

_Winterhold_

The carriage was silent for the remainder of the trip. Most of the passengers were visibly anxious to disembark—Malys in particular had sprung from the cart the moment the horse had stopped as though a giant had punted her off. She was halfway to the ramp leading up to the College before anyone else had even dismounted.

Vinye was the last to leave; though she would not admit it to her friends, the encounter with the Thalmor had deeply disturbed her, more than the vitriolic Bosmer or that guard from Riften. It was the suddenness of it all more than anything. One moment, she had seen their characteristic golden armor and midnight blue cloaks; the next, she had felt that same desperate urge as before—as with all the other times before.

_I wonder if they knew me_.

Her eyes stung, and she smelled smoke from the torchlight of a passing guard. She shook her head, trying to clear it—she could hear that infernal voice again, and the sounds of explosions and screaming.

_They can't know me_, she thought frantically. _They mustn't—not now, not ever!_

_I don't exist to them. I never did._

"Vinye!" Tolfdir called, from one of the magickal fountains lining the bridge to the College. Another snowstorm was about to move in from the north. "Come along, my dear—you'll have some time to rest after we see the Arch-Mage. Quickly, now—before you catch cold!"

The wind was fast becoming too loud for Vinye to answer back. She waved in response, pulled her robes closer together to fend off the cold, and started across the bridge before the biting gusts grew strong enough to blow her off the precipice.

The winds howled louder, and echoed all around her. She could barely see Tolfdir and J'zargo ahead of her, motioning at her frantically to come inside. But the bridge—even if it was reinforced by ancient magics, so the rumors went—was still half crumbled, and against the massive outcrop of rock that the College of Winterhold was built upon, the narrow bridge might as well be a thread.

The wind howled louder still. A rime of frost was beginning to coat her face.

But something was wrong—the wind was coming directly from her left. Why, then, did it sound like it was coming from directly _behind_ her?

She glanced at Tolfdir once more. He, and J'zargo as well, looked properly terrified even through all the blowing snow—and now, Vinye was starting to feel the same way. She risked a quick look backward—

—and regretted it immediately when she saw the dragon _right there_.

Forgetting the cold, forgetting Tolfdir and J'zargo, and forgetting the College, Vinye stood there with her mouth half open, frozen to the stone floor in terror. The great beast was hovering barely a house's length away, and was already so close to her that she could see the individual purple scales on its monstrous, triangular head. Eight beady yellow eyes the size of apples—four on each side of its reptilian snout—blinked at her with malicious intent.

One ancient, long-lived species surveyed another for a few seconds longer. Then, as the dragon reared back—bluish-purple vapor spilling from its jaws—Vinye turned and ran.

She did not hear the deafening thunderclap as the dragon expelled a bluish-purple wave of energy at her, nor did see it—and neither did she care. All she wanted to do was outrun the dragon—outrun the same living hell that had nearly killed her not two days ago. She did not feel her lungs bursting with every ragged breath she took, or her soles aching with every step.

She didn't even feel the force of the energy blast exploding behind her, the force of the impact effortlessly carrying her upward like a ragdoll and into J'zargo's arms, crushing the Khajiit against the gate and forcing it open with a harsh scraping noise. Even as her body skidded to a halt on the stone pathway, her legs were still running in place for a few moments afterward.

_Not again_, she kept thinking over and over, panic clouding her vision. _Not again not again not again_—

BOOM.

The earth heaved beneath her feet, and she heard a deafening _crack_ above her—the dragon must have landed on the battlements above her head. Bits of stone fell to the courtyard.

"_Wo faal Dovahkiin?_" bellowed the dragon, as more panicked students and staff fled indoors. "_Daar sul feyn se Alduin qahnaaraan_."

Vinye just stood there, too scared to even tremble. She heard Faralda's voice far off in the distance, shouting at her to get to safety. But though she tried as hard as she was able, she could not turn herself away from the sight.

And then, another voice—louder than the dragon, and louder than the storm—shouted above them all.

"_Strun … Bah QO!_"

Immediately, the weather around them changed. The air became warmer, more humid. The snow became a trickle of rain—then a shower, and within seconds a full-blown downpour. Bolts of lightning, far more powerful than the pitiful sparks Vinye could produce, crackled in the air, striking everything within range.

One particularly large jolt struck the dragon, burning a hole through its wing as wide around as a barrel. The monster roared; whether in pain or anger, Vinye did not know.

The dragon took to the air again as one electrical blast after another pummeled its scaly hide. "_Mey_," it rumbled. "_Vus ni uth naal nunon joor. Lok … Vah KOOR!"_

There was another clap of thunder. The rain slowed to a light drizzle, eventually stopping entirely, and the stormy skies rapidly dissipated. The sun's rays broke through the clouds, bathing the College in light and warmth.

"_Zu'u ni krif kaal jul!_" roared the dragon, its scaly wings—wide enough to span the entire courtyard—spreading to their fullest extent, casting a shadow over the entire College. "_Fen krif kinbok se dovah!_"

The other voice spoke again. "_Mul … Qah DIIV!_" A bright yellow light engulfed the tower where the figure stood, obscuring him and blinding Vinye.

"_Qo … Nah ZAAN!_" More sapphire-colored energy gathered within the beast's jaws; unlike the smoky substance that had nearly killed Vinye moments ago, this was more akin to her own lightning magic—though even before she saw the dragon release that energy in a narrow, destructive beam, she knew that _this_ lightning was undoubtedly more powerful than even the bolts that had rained down from the sky mere minutes ago.

So when she saw a second, identical ray of electricity blasting from the tower, slamming into the dragon's lightning breath right over the font in the center of the courtyard, and sending shockwaves reverberating throughout the courtyard, she was immediately transfixed at the sight. She forgot how fearful the dragon had caused her to feel.

This was not like that mountain climb at all, she realized. This was not one dragon against another dragon—it was one dragon against one man.

And so far as she could tell, they were evenly matched.

But the dragon's lightning attack was slowly winning. Whoever was controlling its twin must have noticed this; the flow of electricity stopped, leaving the dragon's attack free to bombard the parapet, turning the battlements to dust in the wind.

_No! _Vinye thought.

"_Nikriin_," spat the dragon, as it climbed higher into the air. "_Fent ni filok_."

And then it dived, raising its wings behind its head and dropping like a stone. Vinye tried to turn and run, but the dragon had already landed in the courtyard, its heavy claws destroying the statue in front of the fountain. The monster lowered its head, and Vinye belatedly realized _it was looking right at her_.

"_Krosis_," the beast murmured in a low growl. It inclined its head only a little, and the Altmer, in some corner of her mind that wasn't stone cold petrified, instinctively realized it was talking to her. "_Ni krif, fahliil."_

Cobalt-tinted energy gathered in its jaws again, and Vinye felt her hair standing on end. "But you are in the way."

Vinye gasped. _It can speak Cyrodiilic, too?!_

"_Fus …_ "

And just when Vinye was certain she was about to die a painful death, several things happened at once.

First, a purplish sphere erupted directly beside her—but there was no atronach or familiar inside it. Instead, there was a man wearing stately blue robes and a heavy black mask over his face. Spectral golden spikes covered his head, arms and upper torso like ghostly armor. He was strikingly tall—almost matching Vinye inch for inch—but the Altmer felt a raw power about him that she found intimidating.

_" … Ro … _"

"_Tiid … Klo UL!_" bellowed the man. His body glowed briefly blue, but nothing else appeared to happen. Still, Vinye had seen and heard enough to grasp the meaning of this, and it left her stupefied.

_Is he speaking the dragon's language? Can he actually understand it?_

The man in the gray mask—_gray?_ Vinye wondered. _I thought it was black just a moment ago!_—was moving so fast he appeared blurred around the edges. In the span of a single second, he had opened not one, but _two_ portals into Oblivion. A golden, translucent wyrm as thick around as his arm slithered from each of these, and took up positions flush with each of the mage's hands as they balled into fists.

Vinye gaped. _Is he—?_

_" … DAH!"_

Her question was immediately answered as the mage assumed what must have been some kind of fighting stance (was it her imagination, or had his mask now turned from gray to _green_ right before her eyes?). Seconds later, he had punched the air with a right uppercut, and the rightmost wyrm had leapt out like he'd released a child's toy kite—and actually _headbutted _the monster in the jaw, hard enough to make it stumble a few feet backward. The burst of energy that had been building up in the dragon's mouth exploded harmlessly into the air.

Vinye mentally pardoned her Cyrodiilic, but she had to admit—that was gods-damned _awesome_.

The mage made a left jab, and _that_ wyrm rushed forward and caught the dragon in its ribcage _hard_, sending it crashing against the Hall of the Elements. A right jab hit it even harder, enough to rattle the large window above the beast.

Finally, the mage reached out with both hands, and the wyrms stretched the length of the courtyard, burying their ethereal jaws inside the dragon's flesh, and wrapping their slender bodies around its neck. Then the mage _twisted_ his arms and lower back and spun around, like he was parrying with a broadsword.

The wyrms _twisted_ with him.

The next sound an astounded Vinye heard was the bone-jarring _snap_ of the dragon's spine as the monster's head was forcibly rotated in a half-circle. The dragon made a horrible gurgling noise, twitched violently, and fell limply to the entryway with an earth-shaking THUD.

Vinye tottered up to the mage's side; words had failed the Altmer completely. "I-Is it dead?" she stammered.

_No_, she recanted, J'zargo's words echoing in her mind. _Only the Dragonborn can truly kill a drag—_

Her eyes widened, as the pieces of that puzzle slowly began to fit together.

_It can't be …_

The mage held up a gloved hand, and Vinye immediately stopped where she stood. The mask (a rusty-looking brown now instead of the bright green before) shook his head very imperceptibly.

"_Krifaan voth zin_," Vinye heard him say under his breath. "_Ziil gro jul ulse. Zu'u fen draal bormahu Akatosh—dovah kos sahrot laas, ahrk dovah kos sahrot dinok._" He raised his arms outward in the dragon's direction, as if he was preparing to embrace an old friend. "_Lok, Thu'um_."

Vinye stared wild-eyed as the dragon's scaly body suddenly erupted into flames. Within seconds, the flesh of the monster had been consumed, leaving only a glowing skeleton. But the light was fading from their bones; more than that, Vinye could see—it was actually rushing towards the mage, whose body was now glowing a similar color.

Between the hushed speech and the way the dragon's body had been set ablaze the way it did, Vinye suspected she had just witnessed a very intimate encounter here, as the light from the dragon's remains wove around the mage's body and finally disappeared inside him. This had been more than a battle of survival, she surmised. It had been a display of power—a challenge for dominance—and the dragon had lost.

Only when the mage's body had stopped glowing did he finally move a muscle. The masked face bowed slightly, and Vinye wondered if that was sorrow she was sensing from him.

"He is dead," the mage said reverently.

And so it was that Vinye met Grimnir Torn-Skull: the Arch-Mage of Winterhold, and the Last Dragonborn.

* * *

_Next chapter: Vinye, Cosette, and Malys have a lot of homework ahead of them—and there are plenty of opportunities for outside projects as well._

* * *

**A/N: Blah. I apologize for the late update; I've spent a fair bit of the past few days laid up in bed with an IV in my arm, so this chapter is not as up to snuff as those before it, I feel. **

**And before my inbox is inevitably inundated with intrigued inquiries:**

**There is actually a Spectral Dragon summon in the Creation Kit, and using that particular spell to wrestle a dragon to death seemed to me like a very "Nord" way to go about magic.**

**QO NAH ZAAN (Lightning, Fury, Scream) – Basically the draconic equivalent of Lightning Storm.**

**TL;DR – creative license is awesome, this chapter ... not so much. But I hope you enjoy it all the same. - K**


	6. V

V

"_The Dragonborn is Arch-Mage of Winterhold?!_"

Vinye could barely keep her voice below the strained whisper it was now as she interrogated J'zargo en route to the Hall of Elements. "Why didn't you say anything about this before?"

"J'zargo tried," said the Khajiit. "Three days ago, when we passed Mzulft. But those bandits did not let me finish."

Vinye remembered the ambush, and cursed herself for not asking him about it again.

"At any rate," J'zargo went on, "the Last Dragonborn is retired. He has been to planes of Oblivion where this one would never dare set his paw, and he has gained knowledge that the greatest of wizards would spend lifetimes searching for. Khajiit believes the Arch-Mage has earned his quiet and his peace after his life of adventure, and so he says nothing more on the matter." He nodded once at Vinye, his fur-lined face unusually stern.

"Why does he wear a mask?" Vinye blurted out, before she could stop herself.

J'zargo arched his brow. "The Arch-Mage does not wear any ordinary masks," he said cleverly. "He wears the phylacteries of the high priest-kings of the Dragon Cult—the men and women who devoted themselves to the World-Eater Alduin and his ilk."

Vinye knew of Alduin, and had heard word of his downfall like everyone else that called Tamriel home.

But something else had grabbed her attention. She was no expert on necromancy, nor did she wish to be, but she knew a phylactery was an object that a sorcerer could use to store his soul, thereby making the sorcerer immortal—and quite powerful as well. "Phylacteries," she mused. "So there's more than the one he wears?"

J'zargo laughed as they entered the Hall, and opened the door to the Arch-Mage's quarters. "How many there are, this one does not know. But he has eight that J'zargo knows of."

That surprised Vinye even more. "Really? I thought he just had the one, and that it … changed colors," she trailed off, feeling more foolish with every word she said.

J'zargo grinned. "Ah. That is Khajiit magic. Perhaps if J'zargo sees you as a competent mage, he will teach you as he once taught it to the Dragonborn, hmm?"

_In other words, simple sleight-of-hand_, Vinye thought with a wry smile. Still, she mused further, she could sense J'zargo had a very high opinion of the Arch-Mage—and she suspected the reverse was true as well, if a Nord of all people was willing to be taught the tricks of a Khajiit. The sheer irony of such a situation was almost amusing.

Yet the Arch-Mage's power—the Dragonborn's power—was undeniable. And only an hour ago, in that brief minute before the Dragonborn had exited the courtyard and into the Hall of Elements, Vinye had seen this power for herself.

And, for a very dark moment, she wondered what he could have done to a mere mortal like her.

She fought the urge to shiver.

* * *

Malys was grateful to be out of her beat-up elven armor. It breathed well enough, but the high collar of the cuirass made it very difficult to turn her neck, which she had been doing ever since she'd stepped into Grimnir's quarters.

The space was almost as enormous as the Hall itself. A sizable garden occupied the center of the room, lit by floating mage-lights and dominated by a single large tree. To Malys' right lay an assortment of soul gems and an enchanting table. One of these she recognized as a black soul gem, and she shuddered at the thought that a person's soul might very well be living inside it right now. On her left was a laboratory filled with enough ingredients to make any alchemist happy—the table next to her even had a whole tureen of what was labeled as vampire dust. Lucius' face swam in her vision briefly, and she glared at the flaky gray substance, wishing it would burst into flame.

Before her was Arch-Mage Grimnir, who presently wore an old, rusting mask over the robes that signified his position. Tolfdir was in the middle of presenting his report to him, and while Grimnir's face was unreadable, his tone and actions were far from it at the moment.

"Damn that priest!" he growled beneath his mask. "I should have known he'd try to find some way to go over my head. I hope he wasn't _too_ drastic with you."

A few seconds passed by before Malys realized Grimnir was addressing her specifically. "Oh—well," she stammered, "I'm a little … shaken, yes. But nothing serious," she amended hastily; Malys decided it might be better not to mention Lucius' sword—Dawnbreaker, or whatever he had called it.

"I'm glad to hear it—you have my word that he will no longer be welcome inside College grounds," Grimnir said, gracious but perfunctory at the same time.

The mask turned back to Tolfdir. "You say this Solyn may be looking for Kagrenac's Tools?"

"Not specifically," replied the Master Wizard. "He wanted to seal away as many artifacts of the Dwemer as possible. He called it his way of honoring them."

"Hmm. I'd like to call it consolidating power," Grimnir mused. "This isn't the first time someone's used the dwarves' creations to achieve their own goals. The Synod Council's presence in Mzulft has not gone unnoticed, and there are rumors that the College of Whispers has turned its focus on Avanchnzel, far to the south. Even we are guilty of hoarding their power to some extent."

Tolfdir cleared his throat. "I was under the impression we weren't to talk about that incident," he said cautiously, looking at the novices uneasily, and back to Grimnir with a very odd expression.

Malys saw the mask tilt imperceptibly backward, and she imagined the eyes beneath it were looking towards the back of the chamber, past a partition separating the garden from the rest of the quarters.

She frowned. What was the College trying to hide?

For some reason, she found herself looking at the vampire dust again. There was something about it, she recalled; it was used in potions, and valued in covert operations, so she was told—but to what effect? Malys hadn't studied enough alchemy to know for sure, and while she knew it must enhance a vampire's abilities in some way, being accused as one did not make her keen to explore that particular subject any further.

And yet, she was certainly keen on answering that one nagging question …

Grimnir coughed, bringing her back to reality. "Yes, well—at any rate, it would take time to search for such powerful artifacts, no matter how much assistance Solyn might have in that regard."

Malys sidled closer to the table with the vampire dust while Grimnir talked. A daring idea had just taken root in her mind, and she hoped what little skill she had in sleight-of-hand and illusion would be enough to suffice.

"You're suggesting we help him, then?" Tolfdir asked.

"J'zargo is not so sure." The Khajiit looked anxious, and the tip of his tail was twitching. "It may be more prudent to keep these artifacts someplace where we know they are safe."

No one noticed Malys surreptitiously dip her hand in the dust, scoop out a handful behind her back, and dump it into her pocket. She sighed. _That's the easy part_, she thought, edging her way back to the rest of the group.

"As much as I'd like to agree with you, J'zargo," Grimnir said, "remember that the College is an independent institution—unlike the Synod and the College of Whispers. If we attracted too much attention by gathering so many powerful artifacts together, then we'd be inserting ourselves into their own arms race. Better that we keep our heads down as much as possible. Although," he added, "we must be mindful to our own future as well."

He nodded at the novices. "You may go," he said to them. "I would suggest that you speak with Urag down in the Arcaneum at your earliest convenience. He can provide you with any information you need on the Dwemer and their artifacts."

The three mages nodded, and headed towards the stairway that led to the College's main library.

* * *

Vinye had dealt with Urag gro-Shub once before; the Orc had been initially distrustful of her—especially since she had chosen his library to hide in after her botched summoning of that storm atronach. After a stern talking-to, though, the two mages had discovered a mutual predilection for knowledge and literature, and Vinye had agreed to make her errs up to Urag in secret: he would have her reshelf any books and scrolls left behind and reorganize the stacks as well, and in return, she could peruse whatever books caught her eye.

Nevertheless, having such an unlikely friend within the College didn't change the fact that Urag was the most intimidating librarian she had ever met. Nor did it help that the Orc pretended not to know of their little arrangement, and greeted the high elf with his trademark scowl.

"This is my library," he grunted. "My own little slice of Oblivion. I don't care if you're the Arch-Mage himself—one toe out of line, and you'll get to see how angry an atronach _really_ is." He looked pointedly at Vinye, who couldn't resist a shudder. Urag was nothing, if not a master keeper of secrets.

Cosette scoffed. "First a cat for a master instructor, and now an Orc for the librarian?" she said with mock incredulity. "Next, you'll tell me one of the Arch-Mages was a sodding Sload."

Urag chuckled mirthlessly. "Nearly. But that was a hundred years before your time," he huffed. "Now, are you looking for something, or are you going to test my patience?"

Cosette shrugged. "You're the bookworm," she said airily to Vinye, and sauntered off to one of the nearby tables, leaving the Altmer alone with Urag.

"We're looking for books on Dwemer artifacts," Vinye said calmly. "Anything you can spare would do just fine."

Urag growled. "I thought you might," he said. "News travels fast around here. The sound echoes off the stone—in a place as quiet as my library, you tend to hear things one might not want to be heard."

He reached below his desk, and pulled out several tomes. "Here," he said, handing a particularly dusty one to Vinye. "_Tamrielic Lore_—written by Yagrum Bagarn: the last living dwarf."

Vinye was shocked. "The last _living_ Dwemer?!" she whispered. "How is that possible?"

Urag gave a noncommittal shrug. "I never asked," he said. "Yagrum was … somewhere. Adventuring in some far-off pocket of Oblivion, I heard. He wasn't on Nirn when all the dwarves disappeared, and that's why he didn't go with them."

Vinye considered this. "I'll have to have a talk with him—what better person to ask about dwarven relics than an actual dwarf?"

"Hah! Good luck with that," Urag sneered. "Poor sod took ill with Corprus the moment he came back—nothing but a bloated, gibbering fool now. He's in no shape to tell you anything, even if he wanted to."

_Well, that's _that_ plan dead in the water_, Vinye sighed.

Urag handed her a silver-bound book. This one looked much more recent. "Something else you might like," he said tersely. "_The Aetherium Wars_. Got a pristine first-edition copy earlier this year. It's going to stay that way, too, understand?"

"Not one drop of mead," Vinye smiled. She placed the two books in her satchel.

"Is that all, then? I have my own work to do," Urag said.

Vinye looked around, checking that no one else was within earshot. "Actually—" she began, and frowned.

Malys was nowhere to be seen. That was strange, Vinye thought; she thought the Dunmer had arrived at the Arcaneum with herself and Cosette. She shrugged—perhaps she'd turned in early for the day. It had been a tumultuous few days for her; that much was clear. Plus, she thought, Malys not being around made things easier.

"Actually, I'd like to ask a favor," she said, her thoughts returning to business. It was high time she started looking for answers to more puzzling questions than the disappearance of the dwarves and the location of their artifacts. "I can put in some extra time here, clean out the stacks, anything you need—I just need you to look into a couple things for me."

Urag's scowl deepened further. "And what would these things be?"

Vinye told him.

Once she was finished, Urag was no longer scowling, but was looking at Vinye with an inquisitive expression that he clearly did not use often. "Well, now. That's a first," he said. "This on your own time?"

Vinye thought of Malys. "Let's just say I'd like to avoid any questions for the time being."

Urag grumbled under his breath, thinking Vinye's proposition over in his head. Finally, he coughed gruffly.

"Fine," he grunted. "I might have some contacts in Morrowind I can check in with. But this is no ordinary favor you're asking me—so you'll have to do a lot more than clean spiders out of my stacks before I can call us even." He reached under his desk, and produced a small cube about six inches high that pulsed with a dim blue light. The telltale crest of the Dwemer was emblazoned on all six sides.

"Arch-Mage Grimnir gave this to me a while back. Told me I could do what I wanted with it—lock it up, or sell it, even chuck it in the Sea of Ghosts for all he cared. When he told me what it was, I asked him if Sheogorath had mixed the last pint of mead he drank."

Vinye poked the innocent-looking chunk of metal with a cautious finger. "And … what is it?"

"A damn good paperweight," Urag smirked. "But more to the point, it's a Dwarven lexicon. A thousand Arcaneums could fit into one tiny corner of this little beauty. How they did it, I don't know, and the Dwemer certainly aren't going to tell anyone." He chuckled darkly. "The dwarves used this particular lexicon to store the knowledge of an Elder Scroll."

Vinye's mouth fell open. _Is he serious—an actual Elder Scroll?!_ "And you were using this," she said in utter disbelief, "as a _paperweight_?"

"What good is the knowledge of all possible futures and all possible pasts if you don't even know the _language it's written in_?" snorted Urag. "I was only being practical!"

Vinye sighed. "Fair enough. So—what do you want me to do with this?"

"One of our scholars went out to the ice fields up north about a decade ago," said Urag. "Name of Septimus Signus. Brilliant mind—no one in the world knew more about the Elder Scrolls than he did—but he couldn't be social worth a damn. He was going after the Dwemer, too, funnily enough."

"Really?"

"He up and vanished one day—said he'd found one of their artifacts under the sea. Went missing for the longest time, and we all thought him dead up until the Arch-Mage ran across him a few years ago.

"Septimus wanted to study the knowledge of an Elder Scroll, but he's no Moth Priest—his mind wasn't developed enough. If he even glanced inside an actual Scroll, his mind would be cooked as a cabbage before he even knew it. So he looked for a workaround, and found one with the Dwemer—and apparently Grimnir helped him out.

"But living on his own for so long took its toll. Septimus' mind was half gone already by the time the Arch-Mage caught up with him, so I was told. Guess he didn't want all that knowledge wasted on a madman, so instead of bringing the lexicon back to him, Grimnir brought it back here." He patted the lexicon with a broad palm and a broader grin.

"And you want me to bring it back to this Septimus?" Vinye asked. She liked this proposition less and less by the minute. But perhaps this Septimus character knew more about Dwemer relics as well. In the end, she decided it might be better to bite the proverbial arrowhead, and she nodded. "All right, I'll see what I can do. You're sure he won't misuse it at all?"

"Aye," Urag said. "Truth be told, I don't see how anyone can use this thing now."

He pushed the lexicon to Vinye. The Altmer regarded the object a while longer, then wedged it into her satchel with some difficulty. _It'll do until I can fetch my pack_.

"I'll check back with you in a week or so," she told Urag. "I hope that'll be enough time for those contacts of yours."

Urag merely grunted, and Vinye turned back to return to Cosette.

"What was that all about?" the Breton asked idly, skimming a copy of _The Bear of Markarth_ with a bored look on her face.

"Just following a lead on this Dwemer project," Vinye half-lied. "Where's Malys?"

Cosette frowned. "Damned if I know," she shrugged. "Poor elf's probably curled up in bed, crying herself to sleep right now. Can't say I blame her—that priest was off his absolute nut."

As if to prove her wrong, one of the heavy oak doors creaked open, and Malys emerged. Immediately, Vinye could tell something was amiss: the Dunmer was moving unsteadily, like her knees had been locked into place. Her red eyes were bleary and wide as saucers, and her normally ashen face had lost all color to it. A slip of paper was clutched in her right hand, and her whole body was shaking violently.

"Where've you been?" Cosette chirped, flicking her eyes upward from her book.

Malys took a deep breath.

* * *

Once the Dunmer knew she was out of sight, she knew she'd only have a few seconds to put her plan in motion. It all hinged on that one handful of vampire dust that she had cupped in her hands. She took a deep breath, and poured the substance into her mouth, coughing slightly.

There was a flash of purple light, and Malys' heart jumped when she saw her hands—indeed, her whole body, robes and all—vanish from view. The only indication that she was there was a faint ripple effect.

_No wonder this stuff's used in stealth potions_, Malys thought. She'd had a huge stroke of luck by ingesting the vampire dust. But time was of the essence—vampire dust was not the same as an invisibility potion, which meant she couldn't waste any more time frolicking about.

As quietly as possible, then, she cast a muffling spell towards her feet. Her boots were already soft and padded enough, but she wasn't about to take any chances. Then, she made her way back into Grimnir's quarters.

"Savos Aren's father?" the Arch-Mage was saying. "And he told you this himself?"

Malys only barely caught a hint of puzzlement in his voice as she sneaked past him. Her footsteps were relaxed and measured: slow enough to not arouse suspicion, but mindful all the same of the limited time the combined effects of the muffling spell and the vampire dust had on her body.

"That he did," Tolfdir replied. "But you know how difficult Dunmer ancestry can be to corroborate outside of Morrowind. And Savos always preferred to keep the more personal aspects of his life to himself."

Malys exhaled a sigh of relief as she passed the partition that separated Grimnir's personal quarters; all three adults had been too engrossed in their conversation to notice the faint distortion slinking to the back of the chamber. Now, away from prying eyes, she began to take in the Arch-Mage's more personal refinements.

A double bed dominated the space; she poked a pillow with an invisible finger, and mouthed a silent "Wow" as she contemplated the number of birds that had been plucked to make such luxury possible. A trunk lay at the foot of the bed, large enough to fit her if she squeezed in. It opened silently, and with the touch of a finger, but Malys saw nothing but an assortment of staves.

Across from the bed was a safe, and above that a glass display case half as long again as her forearm. She readied her ice magic, intending to rust the lock to the safe the same way she had done with that set of doors in Rkund, when something in the display case caught her eye. She peered upward to get a closer look.

And froze in her tracks when she saw what was inside. She felt her body grow numb.

_Azura, give me strength …_

* * *

"The point is, we don't know how much of his story has been falsified, if any at all," said Grimnir. "We have no evidence to prove that this Solyn could be under the employ of another institution, and if we accused him of such, we would risk our neutral stance in Tamriel's political affairs."

"Still, it is a risk we cannot ignore," Tolfdir mused.

"And according to his letter," J'zargo chimed in, "we were only granted first rights to enter Rkund. This Solyn said nothing of paying for exclusives. Khajiit thinks there will be competition in finding these dwarven artifacts. We must act on this now, my friend!"

"E-excuse me?" A new voice piped up from behind them. The three mages turned.

A poorly-shaven man in a ragged hat and mismatched clothing strode into the chamber. The knapsack over his back identified him as a courier.

"What is it?" Grimnir asked warily. "Who sent you here?"

"I was told to give you this, sir," the courier recited, producing a scrap of parchment from his knapsack and putting it in Grimnir's palm. "It's for a Miss Cosette Ionsaithe. It sounded pretty urgent."

"Who is it from?" J'zargo asked, eyes narrowed.

The courier shrugged. "Not sure—I got it from a couple of people in brown robes and funny-looking tattoos. Looked like … fire coming from their mouth and their eyes."

The three mages shared a look of confusion. Wordlessly, Grimnir fished out a handful of septims from his pocket and gave them to the courier. "There's more where that came from if you wait a moment longer," he said. "I may need to deliver a message of my own soon."

He raised his voice. "But before I do that, Miss Malys, I'd like to know what you're doing back there!"

There was a yelp of surprise from behind the stone partition as Grimnir clicked his fingers once. One seconds later, a sphere of transitory purple fire erupted before him, revealing a very surprised Malys Aryon.

"How did you—?!" she shrieked, before falling utterly silent at the stern looks of Tolfdir, J'zargo, and the inscrutable mask of Grimnir.

That mask now turned to and fro. "Would you all please wait outside?" he addressed the others. His voice was even less revealing than his light-gray mask. "I'd like to have some words with this young lady."

* * *

Malys was so shocked by what had just happened that for a moment, she had entirely forgotten the magnitude of what she had just recently discovered. _How did he know I was there?!_

As J'zargo, Tolfdir, and the courier filed out of the room, she looked back up at Grimnir … and up. She realized that she was still in a crouching position, and hastily clambered to her feet. She gulped as the unmoving gray mask stared back at her.

"Now," Grimnir repeated evenly, "I'd like to know what you were doing back there."

Malys almost wished he'd shouted; she could feel her face blushing furiously red with guilt.

"I'd like to know how you managed to get your hands on _this_!" she spluttered, brandishing a dagger in front of Grimnir. The blade appeared to be made of pure blue crystal—and was too thick and blunt enough to have functioned as an efficient dagger. But Malys had recognized that blade as soon as she'd laid eyes on it, as well as the six spikes on the guard, the thinness of the hilt, and the crescent-moon shape that served as a pommel.

Without even thinking, she had swiped it from the display case, feeling slightly reckless as she did so—though not to the extent of touching the artifact with her bare hands, instead electing to use the sleeve of her robe. She had read the stories, and knew the mortal danger faced by anyone who wielded this dagger without proper protection.

"Keening," Grimnir said. Was it Malys' imagination, or was that _regret_ she was hearing in the Arch-Mage's voice? "Kagrenac used this blade in tandem with the hammer Sunder; Sunder would draw forth power from the Heart of Lorkhan, Keening would focus that power—"

"—and Wraithguard would protect him from dying from that power," Malys finished, a bit defiantly. "I read the stories … sir," she hastily added.

Grimnir looked at Malys' outstretched hand—or rather, the bunched-up sleeve that separated her bare hand from Keening. "I see." He reached out with his own hand; Malys saw he was not wearing any gloves.

Before she could say anything, that bare hand had grasped Keening by the blade. Not forcefully—but not gently, either. Malys was so surprised by this that she instinctively released her hold on the artifact, and stumbled back.

"Be careful with that!" she cried. "If you touch that, it could kill you!"

To her shock, Grimnir remained calm. "By now, it certainly would have—or at least, it might have two centuries ago," he said. "Keening and Sunder were uniquely attuned to the energies of the Heart. But when it was removed from this world, the enchantments that Kagrenac wove into them—the same fatal enchantments you speak of—began to fade over the years. Now, they are only a shadow of their former selves." He chuckled grimly, and stared at Keening through his mask. "I doubt this blade is worth more than the boots on my feet.

"But that does not excuse you," Grimnir went on, his voice more stern now. "What you did was very foolish, Miss Malys—and could potentially have been very dangerous as well. You did not know this knowledge prior, and so you acted rashly."

Even as Malys bowed her head in shame, her brow had furrowed in confusion. It sounded to her like Grimnir was less concerned about her stealing from his personal quarters than what she had attempted to steal.

He laughed when Malys mentioned this to him—a genuine laugh, too, one that came as a surprise to the Dunmer. "Miss Malys, if I punished you for the simple act of larceny," he said, "I'd be as much of a hypocrite as half of Skyrim."

He indicated a nearby table and chair. "Please, have a seat," he invited Malys. At once relaxed and worried, she sat down, and the Arch-Mage (_when did he change his mask?_ Malys wondered, when she noticed the previously gray face was now a dull orange) likewise took the chair across from her.

Once Grimnir was comfortable, he carefully laid Keening in the center of the table, and steeped his fingers. "I wondered if you'd indulge in an old man's tall tale while we were here," he said cheerfully.

Malys cocked her head to one side. "Is … this my punishment?" she asked with a little half-smile; she was genuinely puzzled, but not above a little jesting. The Dunmer was relieved to hear Grimnir laugh again—though was less so when he did not provide any further answer to her question.

"This was, oh, let's say three or four years ago," Grimnir began, coughing. "I'd only recently enrolled in the College as a novice like yourself. Yes, yes, I'm aware that's an inordinately short time," he said, apparently catching Malys' expression of surprise, "but for all intents and purposes, Tolfdir carries more weight in the day-to-day humdrum around here than I do. So you may think what you will.

"But I digress. Now, at that time, there was a scholar with the College: a Breton by the name of Arniel Gane. I only met him in passing at first, when I was inside the ruins of Saarthal. As time went on, he apparently noticed how advanced I had become in my studies, and requested my help in a project he'd been working on in his spare time."

"As with this elf Solyn you met in Rkund, Arniel was also fascinated with the dwarves—more to the point, he wanted to solve the mystery of their disappearance. And—after much trial and tribulation on both our parts—he confided to me that he wished to recreate the circumstances of this event."

Malys did a double take. "Recreate? How did he approach that?"

"He used a specially treated soul gem in place of the Heart of Lorkhan, and then after I'd acquired Keening for him, he struck the gem with the blade, and recorded the results."

Malys might only have been a novice, but her knowledge of the Tools was enough to tell her that there were holes in that plan wide enough to fit a Sload. "But a soul gem isn't the same thing as the heart of a _dead god_," she said incredulously. "And where was Sunder in all this? Keening was never supposed to be used on its own."

Grimnir folded his hands on the table. "Ostensibly, Arniel wasn't able to track it down. But I suspect he grew too eager to see his experiments bear fruit—and he paid a very high price in the process."

Malys suddenly felt a chill of dread crawl up her spine. "What do you mean? Was he successful?"

Grimnir slowly rose to his feet. "Arniel!" he called.

Malys whipped her head around when she heard the sound of a portal to Oblivion behind her. Unlike the ones she was familiar with, however, this particular portal was wreathed in bluish-white flame instead of the regular deep violet.

When she saw what came out of the portal—she gasped.

Not who, _what_—though he had the form of a human, that was all he had in that particular regard, Malys thought as she looked at the thing that must have been Arniel Gane in another lifetime. His body was the same shade of translucent blue from robes to flesh, and his eyes were snow-white, unblinking, and glowing with a bright light that was not of this world.

And until he opened his mouth, Malys had thought him a ghost—a shade that had not yet fully passed on to the next life. But the sounds the thing-that-was-Arniel made were not human noises; they were more akin to the tortured moans and inane babble of a necromancer's puppet.

"It … stabs," it rasped, while Malys stared in horror. "It … flays. Deeper—_uhhh_—than the earth … deeper than—_unnh_—the mind."

"Make of it what you will, Miss Malys—even I don't know how successful he was," Grimnir said mournfully, as the shade of Arniel continued to moan incoherently. "I don't suspect I ever will, either—not least because of his present state of mind."

" … They pound … they drum … the pounding drums … echoes of the deep … "

"By this time," Grimnir went on, "I had only just settled into my current position, and I forbade any further research into the Dwemer without my authorization. I did not wish for another incident like Arniel's to happen again."

"What's he going on about?" Malys asked, still trembling at the otherworldly sight.

Grimnir shook his head. "Who can say? Perhaps he is trying to describe to us whatever realm he was sent to. Most of the time, nothing he says makes any sense at all."

Arniel's shade turned suddenly towards Malys, and the Dunmer had the distinct impression that it could see right through her. Then, she yelped in panic as the ghost suddenly rushed for her, and gripped her by the shoulders.

"The devil … and the deep elves," moaned the shade in a death rattle, clutching Malys like a lifeline. "United then … and for all time … sealed where neither daedra … nor divine—_urrragh_—shall ever tread … "

Malys was shaking so violently her whole body appeared blurred. She was too petrified to even speak as the shade continued to speak, its spectral head only a foot away from her own.

"And—_uhhh_—as with … the dwar—"

And then he let out an unearthly wail; Malys felt icy fingers tighten around her lungs, and the air of the room became as cold as the weather outside. Arniel's ghostly fingers had slipped through her body; the shade was fading from this world, returning to whatever hell it called home—though not without some parting words.

"Thus the … lost … house … survives … " it breathed, and then it had disappeared from sight at Malys' feet, leaving a chilling silence in its wake.

Grimnir rose from his seat after a long while. "I'm very sorry that you had to see that, Miss Malys," he said gently, laying a calming hand on her shoulder.

The Dunmer was still trembling, and she felt her eyes sting with tears. She had never remembered seeing anything more horrifying in her life—and that included what little memory she retained of her experience in Windhelm.

"Are you well, Malys?"

_No. No, I am not well at all!_ And yet, as much as she believed otherwise, she felt her head nod up and down only slightly. She squished her eyes shut for a few moments, then opened them again, and took a deep breath.

"I think … I think I should get some rest," she said wearily.

"I understand," Grimnir nodded. He reached for a slip of paper next to him. "Would you take this to your friend Cosette before you turn in for the night, though? I believe she is in the Arcaneum downstairs with Miss Vinye."

Malys numbly nodded, and stood up from the chair. " … Thanks," she gulped nervously, not entirely sure if she should be thankful at all—as far as she could tell, she had not been punished for what she had done. But never in her wildest dreams had she expected any of this to happen.

She turned to leave.

"Malys."

Grimnir had risen up after her, and though Malys could not see his face beneath the mask, she wasn't at all sure if she wanted to.

"I will help you in your efforts this one time," said the Arch-Mage firmly. "But this is as far as I will go. From now on, whatever might happen as a result of this endeavor—for good or ill—you must shoulder your own burden. Too many lives have been lost in pursuing the mystery of the dwarves. I will not add more to that list."

Malys sensed then that their conference had drawn to a close. Taking the sheaf of parchment in hand, she descended the stairs to the Arcaneum. The faces of Solyn and Arniel drifted through her head, silently taunting her—tempting her.

She wondered if she would ever be able to fully explain what had happened in here to Vinye and Cosette.

* * *

"You're _joking_."

Cosette stared at the Dunmer as though she'd sprouted two extra heads. Vinye looked to be having some trouble choosing between scandalized shock and silent awe.

"You stole one of Kagrenac's Tools from the Arch-Mage's own bedroom and you didn't even get punished for it?" Cosette laughed. "How much did you have to seduce him for that to happen?"

A pause, and then her round face puckered in disgust. "_Damn_ the gods, I'm _never_ going to get that out of my head!"

"Quiet over there!" Urag growled from his desk. Cosette scowled back at him in return, and made a rude gesture at him under the table where the Orc couldn't see.

"I'm _really_ not in a mood to joke right now," Malys said, plopping herself down between the two mages. "What he showed me up there was a worse punishment than anything I'd imagined."

"_That's not_ _helping_," Cosette seethed.

Vinye cleared her throat loudly. "Perhaps we should focus on our research?" she asked tentatively.

Malys sighed. "I can't stay long," she said, picking up _Tamrielic Lore_ and leafing through it. "Right now, all I want to do is go to sleep. I just hope I _can_ after all that's happened this week."

Her eyes alighted on a random page of the book, and she skimmed it over. "Huh," she said. "Listen to this: _'Aside from its historical importance in the Battle of Rourken-Shalidor, the Spellbreaker protects its wielder almost completely from any spell caster, either by reflecting magicks or silencing any mage about to cast a spell.'"_

"That's a neat little trinket to have," Cosette said appreciatively. "Not a word to J'zargo," she added under her breath, even though the Khajiit was nowhere to be seen.

"The Rourken were one of the most well-known Dwemer clans of the First Era," Vinye recalled. "They put up freehold colonies in Hammerfell and Stros m'Kai. I think they even had some kind of Orrery on that island."

"The trouble is," Malys said, "the last time that anyone saw the Spellbreaker was a museum in Morrowind. And I've also heard that it's supposed to be a Daedric artifact as well. Peryite, I think it was."

Cosette groaned. "Then it could be anywhere! It might not even be in Mundus, for all we know!"

Vinye frowned. "Well, if that's the case … there is one other option. If we can't get to the Spellbreaker, why not make it come to us?"

The other mages stared at the Altmer, amazement slowly washing over them.

"Summon a Daedric Prince?" Cosette said in disbelief. "Are you out of your high-and-mighty-elf mind? You can't even summon a sodding _atronach_!"

Vinye recoiled at the insult as though she'd been stung, and she glared at Cosette.

"If we're getting the Daedra involved," Malys said calmly, "I'd much rather get Spellbreaker on my own—at least, if I were you, Vinye. You probably know more about conjuration than I do, so you're more equipped for this than I am."

"I wonder about that," Cosette grumbled.

"I'm flattered … really," said Vinye, a slight blush to her olive cheeks. "But I've already got another lead I want to check out for myself."

"Then I'll look into Spellbreaker," said Cosette. "I've heard there's a shrine to Peryite somewhere in the Reach, and I still know the area fairly well. And at least _I_ know how to summon a daedra without any help," she added under her breath.

"What about you, Malys?" Vinye asked.

The Dunmer thought long and hard. "J'zargo mentioned the ruins of Mzulft that one time. Knowing what I know of him, I probably won't find much in there, but it'll be a good starting point for me. I'll work my way south along the Velothi range—there's bound to be a fair amount of ruins in those mountains."

"We should also set up a time and place to meet when we're done," Vinye added. "How about Whiterun in … say, a week's time?"

"Assuming none of us dies?" Cosette said dryly. "Sure, that sounds like a plan to me."

Malys suddenly remembered the sheet of parchment Grimnir had given to her. "Oh—Cozy, this came for you earlier." She produced it between her index and middle fingers.

Cosette snatched it from her fingers without even looking her way, and slid a finger through the wax seal. She unfolded the letter, and spent the next few seconds skimming it over.

And then suddenly, she stood bolt upright from the table, and her chair fell to the floor with a clatter. Concerned, Malys and Vinye looked upward at her; the Breton's round face had changed completely. It was harder-edged now, angular. All trace of color had drained from it completely, and Cosette was trembling head to toe.

"Cosette?" Malys waved a hand in front of her face. "Cozy, are you all right?"

And then Cosette stuffed the paper into her robe. She was looking straight ahead, her neck rigid, and her eyes unmoving. Malys saw the glassy expression in them, and sensed from this and the Breton's ashen face that she'd just received some very bad news.

"I have to go," Cosette said brusquely. Before either of the elves could say anything, Cosette had slung her bag over her shoulder, turned on her heel, and raced out of the Arcaneum with a manic fury that reminded Malys of the first night she'd met Vinye.

The Altmer looked as bewildered as she did. "That was … strange," she said.

Malys was inclined to agree. "Should I follow her, ask what that was about?"

Vinye shook her head. "I wouldn't bother. Whatever was in that letter must have been very personal, if it affected her the way it did."

Malys sighed. "Vinye, can I ask you something?"

"Is it about Rkund?" Vinye looked suspiciously at her, and Malys shook her head.

"No, no … it's about this whole Dwemer business. Have you … have you ever wondered if all this trouble we're going to might be worth it in the end?"

Vinye thought for a while. "I'm a scholar," she finally said. "I came to Winterhold to study not just magic, or history, or any manner of books. I came to study _truth_. I've put up with my fair share of lies elsewhere, and it's time I put my effort into studying something that's actually worthwhile.

"I've heard a lot of conjecture and so-called theory about the disappearance of the Dwemer in my time, Malys. I've listened to blowhards and snakes put forth their lies for the sole purpose of ingratiation and social standing."

She leaned closer to Malys. "_And I want to prove them wrong_."

"But at what cost?" Malys pressed on. "Is solving the mystery of the dwarves worth dying for?"

"If it meant dispelling the ignorance of the frauds I've dealt with in the past," Vinye said indignantly, "then _yes_! Yes … I _would_ give my life to give Tamriel the truth it deserves to know!"

Malys listened to Vinye's speech with a quiet awe. She had come here merely to advance her own skills in magic—but after listening to the Altmer, she realized how … _petty_ that particular goal sounded in comparison. This was a mage who truly did want to unravel the mysteries of Aetherius, and would try her damnedest to do so.

"There aren't enough scholars like you in Tamriel, Vinye," she said appreciatively. "And between you and me, I think that's why you're going to make a damn good mage—more so than Cosette, and more so than me."

Vinye really _did_ blush this time.

"But if there's one thing the truth really does," Malys continued, "it's that it _hurts_. And the day the truth you've been following finally comes out … is the day when scholars like you won't have any place in Tamriel anymore."

Vinye grinned in a most un-Altmerish way. "I look forward to that day," she said boldly.

Malys yawned suddenly—she hadn't realized it was so late. "I think I should probably call it a night," she said, as she stood up from the table. "Good luck with your lead, Vinye." She flashed a wry grin. "Try not to die, all right?"

"Likewise," the Altmer smiled back. The two mages embraced one final time, and Malys departed the Arcaneum at length.

If she had thought to turn around at all, she might have seen that Vinye's green eyes had narrowed almost to slits, and were lingering on her rather longer than was necessary.

* * *

The prospect of going back into Eastmarch after her previous experience there did not sit well with Malys, and as a result she had to endure yet another sleepless night. Instead of Windhelm, she dreamed of another, nameless Dwemer ruin, but the faceless mass of eyes and mouths still chased her through the stone halls all the same. The steam from the pipes hissed at her in the voice of the "other Malys" while streaks of … something—whether it was pain or pleasure, she could not tell—shot through her body like lightning bolts.

Three times she tried to go to sleep, and three times the nightmare had woken her up in a cold sweat. By the third time, Malys had had enough; the first rays of the sun were shining through the windows, and she knew there would be no point in trying to rest any longer. Cursing the Prince Vaermina for her machinations, Malys donned her suit of elven armor, and began packing her supplies for the trip to come.

Vinye and Cosette had already left, by the looks of things—their beds were empty, and the alchemy table was almost bereft of potions and ingredients. Malys loaded everything that remained into her pack, donned her thick cloak, and departed the College for Winterhold proper.

Her spirits rose slightly when she saw the same horse and buggy from yesterday resting alongside the Frozen Hearth inn. The driver was huddled in his seat in a thick coat of his own, drinking a large bottle of mead. He looked up when he saw Malys.

"Where to?" he said idly.

"Kynesgrove," Malys answered, fishing some coins from her purse and handing them to the driver. "Take your time on the way—it's been a long night, and I'd like some sleep."

"Sure thing," grunted the driver, finishing off the last of his mead. "Just climb in back and we'll be off."

Malys clambered into the carriage, and reclined on the bench with a yawn as the driver flicked the reins, signaling the horse into a light trot. The soft clip-clop of the hooves against the snow-covered roads lulled her to sleep within fifteen minutes.

* * *

_Somewhere in the Sea of Ghosts_

"This had better be worth my time, mage," the ferryman said irritably as he maneuvered his wooden boat around the massive icebergs that dotted the sea. A thick mist rose from the black, ice-cold waters.

"I already paid triple your usual charge to go out this way, Gort," Vinye said calmly. Her breath formed clouds around her in the freezing air, and she had huddled into a ball inside her coat. "I'll give you the rest of your fee after we return to Windhelm."

"If this ends up being a wasted journey, I'll be expecting a lot more than that, too," Gort grumbled.

An iceberg, larger than any they had previously encountered so far, rose up before them. Vinye immediately knew she was on the right track. "That's it. This has to be the place," she said, noticing the second boat tied up alongside it, and the crude circular hatchway that seemed to lead into the blue-white monolith itself.

"You sure about this?" Gort asked, tying off his own boat as Vinye stood up. "This Septimus fellow sounds like he's been touched by the Madgod himself. And that's assuming he even exists anymore."

_Oh, he exists all right_, the Altmer thought to herself. There was no way that torch outside the hatchway had been burning as merrily right now as it must have been four years ago.

"All I need is fifteen minutes," Vinye said, gingerly putting a foot on the ice floe. Once she judged it safe enough to walk on, she exited Gort's ferry with a grunt. "I'm counting on you to wait for me until then."

And without another word, she pulled back the hatch and entered the iceberg.

It was considerably warmer inside, Vinye noticed—if only for the lack of wind. Nevertheless, it was still cold enough—or was she feeling more on edge than she thought? Vinye wondered—that she pulled her thick coat tighter around her body as she trekked further into the frozen behemoth.

"Dig, Dwemer, in the beyond … "

Vinye froze at the voice. It was wavering and singsong, and seemed to be coming from somewhere ahead of her.

" … I'll know your lost unknown, and rise to your depths … "

This was followed by a thin cackle, and Vinye shuddered, but she pressed on all the same; that had to be who she was looking for. The fissure took a sharp turn, and she could see light ahead.

"When the top level was built," the voice sang, "no more could be placed. It was and is the maximal apex."

Suddenly, the chasm opened into a massive cavern, large enough to comfortably fit a small house. Inside, Vinye saw the edge of a large square contraption below her; it must have been twice as wide and high as she was tall. Three giant blue crystals were set in its center, and were surrounded by concentric cogs of indeterminate purpose. It was completely at odds with the natural architecture of the cavern, and unmistakably Dwemer in origin.

A man in a dark blue robe paced back and forth before this enormous device, and he mumbled to himself all the while. "How long will it be sung?" he wheezed. "My feet were set upon the rock, but it turned to mud and drew me down!"

"Excuse me?" Vinye asked hesitantly. "Are you Septimus Signus?"

The man looked upwards, and Vinye could see that this man was very old indeed. He was bent nearly double with age, his wide eyes were clouded with cataracts, and his scraggly silver beard nearly reached down to his waist.

"The ice entombs the heart," he croaked. "The bane of Kagrenac and Dagoth Ur. To harness it is to know. The fundaments—the Dwemer lockbox hides it from me. But the Elder Scroll gives insight deeper than the deep ones, though, to bring about the opening."

Vinye decided to take that as a yes—though she thought Urag might have had a point. _This man must have been very popular at the College_, she thought sarcastically; ten years of near-total seclusion had not been kind to him.

_The sooner I give him the lexicon, the sooner I can get out of here_, she thought.

She reached into her rucksack, and pulled out the glowing golden cube. "I was told to bring you this," she said.

Septimus' half-blind eyes flashed in recognition. "Give it!" he gasped. "Quickly!"

Vinye tossed the lexicon on the ice at his feet as though it had burst into flame. Septimus let out a little cry, and cradled the device in his arms for a little while, whispering indistinctly to it.

"Are you … all right?" Vinye couldn't help but ask.

Septimus cricked his head upwards, smiling a gap-toothed grin. "Oh, I am well," he sang. "I will be well. Well to be within the will inside the walls."

Vinye could only blink stupidly. _... What._

He turned his focus back to the lexicon. "Extraordinary," he rasped. "I see it now! The sealing signature interlocks in the tiniest fractals!"

Vinye frowned. "Wait—are you saying you can _read_ this?"

Septimus appeared not to have heard her. "Dwemer blood can loose the hooks," he rambled, and then suddenly he became crestfallen. "Ah, but none alive remain to bear it!"

The Altmer was looking around nervously. Something about this place was not sitting well with her at all—and it had nothing to do with the mad mage in front of her.

"Hmm … but a panoply of their brethren could gather to form a facsimile," Septimus mused. "Yes … a trick. Something they didn't anticipate—no, no, not even them."

He creaked his head in Vinye's direction. "You, highest one. Come you quickly to Septimus. The fractals of the universe have opened unto me, and I see now the way clear to render the cube's aperture."

Vinye didn't like where this was going, and she held up her hands defensively. "Just one moment—I was only told to bring you the lexicon," she said. "All I want is some kind of a reward; gold, information, anything. But whatever errand you want me to do, I'm not interested."

Septimus gave an odd little smile. "Ah, but as one block lifts the other, perhaps ourselves could help us each, hmm?"

Every ounce of Vinye's conscience was screaming at her to turn tail and run. "Go on," she said uneasily.

"The progeny of the First Folk is scattered to the winds," Septimus said. "You, most high elf, are but one of many branchings of their tree. Seek you out the forest and the snow; sift you through the dung and the ash. Then at the last, return you to your family, and we shall sing the song of the deep ones together."

Vinye tilted her head to one side, completely confused now.

The old wizard doddered over to a rotting cabinet. "A moment for Septimus," he wheezed, rummaging in its drawers. Eventually, he pulled out a mass of golden pipes about the same size as the lexicon, and gave it to Vinye.

"Begin you hence at Raldbthar. The first and second inside the third," he said cryptically. "Three tappings, two punctures, one threading into the deepest of reaches go you. Seek you thus your wind-swept children, and bid these tubules partake of their life-drink. Return you to Septimus when the replica is complete."

And with a final, thin cackle, Septimus Signus tucked himself into his bedroll, still mumbling to himself even as Vinye heard the slightest of snoring from him. Feeling her mind teeming with more questions than answers, she turned away from the icy chamber, and made her way back to the hatchway, back to Gort and his ferry—

—only to be rebuffed by a most unexpected sight. The bluish-white ice walls were turning a dark, sticky green, and slimy tendrils oozed from the fractures and pooled at her feet. Hundreds of eyes, the size of gold coins, stared back at her through the mess, inquisitive and calculating.

"**_Come,_**" boomed a deep, beguiling voice that echoed in Vinye's mind more than it did her ears. "**_Come closer, and bask in my presence …_** "

* * *

_Outskirts of Windhelm_

"_One_ thousand septims? This is a con! Do you know what I went through to get all this, you filthy son of a dripping kitten whore?!"

The Khajiit trader did not even blink at Cosette's tirade, nor did he bat an eye at the pieces of ebony armor she had thrown haphazardly at his feet—even though he secretly would have enjoyed being able to wear such a fine, if only _slightly_ worn, example of craftsmanship.

"Ma'dran finds it easier to not ask questions," he said matter-of-factly. "More business that way, he finds.

"As to the nature of your proposal, I would be willing to discuss more if you were to find a matching helmet as well to complete the set. The sum is greater and more profitable than its parts, yes?"

Cosette seethed through her teeth, wanting nothing more than to set something—or some_one_—on fire. But the letter Malys had given her last night was more important than shady merchants or temper tantrums; right now, she didn't have the time to stand around and argue—or the patience.

And so, with the greatest mental effort she'd ever exerted, she managed to finally calm down.

"I have _got_ to be the biggest sucker in Skyrim," she groaned. She relaxed her iron grip on the Forsworn blade hanging at her side, and aimed a kick at the shiny black boots that had once belonged to the mercenary she'd managed to roast in his own armor earlier this morning. "Take it all, then, you thieving little sod."

Wordlessly, Ma'dran counted out a large bag of gold. "May your road lead you to warm sands," he purred.

Cosette swiped the bulging sack. "I hope you die in a fire," she said half to herself as she made for the stables nearby.

She dropped the heavy sack of coins on a fresh pile of straw, and began attaching a saddle and a set of reins to the lone bay-and-white steed in the stable. She looked at the bemused pair of Altmer stablehands in annoyance.

"Keep the change," she said tersely. "I'm on a deadline, and I don't want to waste time on idle chatter."

Both the stablehands looked like they had plenty of questions to ask. But they weren't about to say no to the mass of gold at their feet, and so they let the Breton go about her business.

Once she was done, Cosette wasted no time in bringing her steed into a brisk trot. As she pulled out of the stable, she pulled out the letter to study it one more time. The penmanship was a spidery scrawl that she almost hadn't been able to read. There had been no postmark, no signature of any kind. But the five simple words that made up the message left Cosette in no doubt of who might have sent it to her.

_You are not alone, Ionsaithe_.

Pocketing the letter once more, Cosette grasped the reins tightly now, and spurred the horse into a full gallop.

* * *

_Rkund_

"Solyn! Solyn!"

The wizard looked up from his meager meal at the mention of his name.

One of the miners he'd sent topside was running in his direction. A lumpy package was clutched in his hand.

"A courier from Winterhold came by just now. He said this is from the Arch-Mage!"

Intrigued, Solyn set aside his plate of food and stood up. "Let me see it," he said. The miner brandished the package.

When Solyn felt it in his hands, a rush of adrenaline surged through his body. He immediately knew what was inside, and he had to fight the urge to smile in triumph for fear of alerting the other miners and hired hands. Turning away from them, he risked a small peek at the contents, and was further rewarded when he saw a sliver of Keening's crystal blade protruding from its wraps.

"At last," he whispered to himself.

A slip of parchment was enclosed alongside the legendary dagger as well. Solyn unfolded it, and began to read.

_Solyn,_

_Enclosed is our response. The College hopes this will be a most enlightening and profitable venture for all parties involved._

_We look forward to continuing our business with you._

_Grimnir Torn-Skull_

_Archmagus of Winterhold_

Solyn pocketed the parchment and the package within his robe. It took all of his willpower not to start trembling with anticipation. _After so long_, he thought,_ I'm that much closer._

"Ambrose! Roderick!"

A Breton and a Redguard rose from their seat around a fire. "You called?" the Breton asked.

"Ready the first of the shipments to Winterhold," Solyn instructed them. "The Arch-Mage will want to see his compensation posthaste, so do not delay in your efforts."

The two miners nodded, and hurried off.

Solyn, in the meantime, headed to the lift that led to the Reliquary. He pulled the lever, and the platform sank deeper into the bowels of the citadel.

_It won't be much longer now_, he thought, betraying a small smile of excitement. _Soon, the last mystery of the Dwemer will be undone._

_And when it is, I will be honored beyond my wildest dreams …_

* * *

_Next chapter: Cosette's past has finally caught up with her, and now she must make a choice._

* * *

**A/N: Wow, sore throats are annoying. At least now you know why I released a second straight chapter full of ****_blah_****.**

**Here's hoping I get better in both my health and my writing capacity soon, though. These next few chapters are going to be an absolute pain to tackle, and I won't lie—I'm very, very worried about how they turn out.**

**But that's enough wheezing for today. I hope you enjoy! - K**


	7. VI

VI

_On the banks of River Karth_

It was sometime in the mid-morning when Cosette's horse collapsed. The mixture of fatigue, thirst, and the diverse climate of Skyrim—combined with the fact that the steed had been galloping at full tilt since Windhelm with hardly any rest breaks whatsoever—had finally proved lethal. The tongue hung limply from the horse's mouth, dry and cracked, and his eyes stared straight ahead, unblinking, unseeing. Flies were already beginning to gather around the body.

Cosette felt only a mild pang of sorrow as she picked herself up from the worn stones of the road, where the horse had dropped her in his last moments. The contents of the letter still occupied the foremost place in her mind—perhaps if things were different, she would have been more mindful of the horse's health, and perhaps managed to keep him alive along enough to make the trip to Whiterun.

But wishes, she reflected, were not so easily granted in Skyrim.

A quick look around the area told Cosette she was right on the eastern border of the Reach; the decaying fort in front of her was one she recognized as Harmugstahl. An alternative plan was forming in her head even now: the town of Karthwasten was less than a mile to the south, she remembered. If she followed the riverbank, she would eventually come across the road that led to the mining settlement. From there, she would seek information on the shrine to Peryite that she'd heard was located close by.

And so, unhooking her supplies from the dead horse, she set on her way with a grim set to her jaw.

She met nothing on her journey there—not even local wildlife, which she found unsettling—until after about ten minutes of walking, she came across a most interesting sight. A young man—a Breton, judging by his slight build—was sitting on the riverbank, bent double over a rock and coughing horribly. His skin was incredibly red, and Cosette would have taken it for sunburn if not for the earliness of the hour, and all the clouds in the sky.

As she approached him, the man seemed to have sensed her arrival, and whirled around. Instinctively, Cosette backed away.

"You finished ogling the grotesque?" the Breton said irritably, in spite of his apparent ill health. He coughed again, and Cosette saw something sticky and sickly green dribble out of his mouth and splatter on the grass.

"Are you all right?" she asked, concerned.

Eventually, after much hacking and more bile oozing from his lips, the Breton nodded more pleasantly. "Aye. Peryite smile upon you for your thoughts."

"Peryite?" Instantly Cosette was intrigued. "What do you know about him?"

The Breton smiled, and wiped his lips. "I'd be dead from this plague a year ago by now if it wasn't for his protection. My name is Duphraime. I'm one of the Afflicted."

Cosette didn't know what they were. "Then you must be going to Peryite's shrine, then?" she guessed. "To pray to him for further protection?"

Duphraime sighed. "No. I'm going back to High Rock. Our shepherd has turned his back on Peryite, you see, and I fear that His wrath may consume the Afflicted who are still loyal to him."

_Shepherd?_ Cosette frowned at the religious irony of a shepherd losing his way. "Can you at least tell me anything about his shrine?"

Duphraime shook his head. "Kesh is the one you want to go to about that. He lives on a hill to the west, over Karthwasten."

Cosette rested her hand on her sword. "Take me to him," she said icily. "Now."

Duphraime eyed the blade with a wry smile. "Killing me would be an act of mercy," he said tonelessly, without any hint of fear at all. "This plague I carry is more painful than all the torments of the Pits of Oblivion. A blade to the chest is nothing compared to what I've been through."

Cosette laughed like a cat being told off by a mouse. "And what if Peryite is displeased that one of his little lost lambs has run away from the fold?" she smirked. "Would you be willing to take that chance?"

Duphraime's smile faltered—for only a moment, and then it was gone—but Cosette had seen the sudden change of expression, and she knew that she'd won. "I suppose you've a point," he said ruefully, hauling his form off the rock. "Come along, then. I will take you to Kesh. He'll tell you all you need to know about Peryite."

He draped an arm over Cosette's shoulders, and together, the two hobbled westward.

* * *

Kesh, to Cosette's minor annoyance, turned out to be another Khajiit—but there was an air about him that set him apart from the clever, scheming J'zargo and the silver-tongued Ma'dran. Kesh was more relaxed than either of the two, and even though he was surrounded by little more than a pot over a small fire, his bedroll, and a simple alchemy table, Cosette sensed that Kesh was more … _content_ than his fellow cats, even in his simple surroundings.

As Cosette crested the hill, Duphraime in tow, the most striking thing about the summit was the large tree before her. It did not seem native to the Reach—Cosette suspected the mass of thick green vines at its roots that wrapped around the tree's trunk and branches might have something to do with that. A golden urn was situated before the tree, and wisps of smoke drifted lazily from the basin.

The Khajiit looked up from the bowl of unidentifiable stew in his paws at the sight of the two Bretons. "Ah, warm sands, travelers!" he greeted them. "You are pilgrims, then? You come to commune with Peryite—our Taskmaster and Blighted Lord?"

Cosette tilted her head at the titles. "Do you worship Peryite?" she asked.

Kesh grinned. "He is the pus in the wound," he said. Catching Cosette's expression, he continued, "The proper ones may curl their noses, but this pus does not spread the foul humors of disease—but _drinks_ them instead, and restores the blood. I worship Peryite, yes, because sometimes the world can be cleansed only through disease.

"Now," he said, looking from one Breton to the other, "do _you_ worship the Prince of Pestilence?"

"_He_ does," Cosette said, idly jerking her head in Duphraime's direction. At a nod from Kesh, the sickly Breton edged closer to the tree, and prostrated himself before its roots. "But I have a question for you—and for your 'Taskmaster.'"

Kesh's grin grew wider. "Ah. You wish to entreat my lord?" he said shrewdly. When Cosette nodded, he went on, "I must warn you, friend, that not everyone has the stomach to do such a thing. But Kesh likes the smell of you,"—Cosette recoiled at the words—"and he just so happens to know how to prepare an incense to please His nostrils."

Cosette did a tiny double take. History was telling her this Khajiit was pulling a fast one on her. And yet, again, there was something that set him apart from J'zargo and Ma'dran. He was smooth, but not slippery; confident, but not overly so. It wasn't much to write about, but she'd not met a Khajiit who she'd been able to trust so quickly.

_If he really knows what he's doing_, she thought, _getting this Spellbreaker will be a cinch_.

Kesh rummaged in a satchel, and produced some seemingly haphazard odds and ends: a fresh cutting of deathbell, a polished ingot of pure silver, one of the fattest and finest-cut rubies Cosette had ever laid eyes upon, and a pinch of vampire dust. All of these were carried over to the basin before the tree. Kesh muttered an indistinct incantation, dumped them inside, and Cosette heard a thick, glutinous splash from within.

The smoke changed now from a thin, wispy grey to a billowing mist of green—the same shade of green, Cosette noted uneasily, as the vile substance she'd seen Duphraime spitting out every now and again.

"Yes, yes—a fine fume indeed, no?" Kesh smiled. He bid Cosette come closer. "Come then, take a breath, and we shall see if Peryite is roused, hmm?"

Cosette wasn't so sure. Now that she was closer to the urn, she could see the bilious green mire that filled it to the brim—and more importantly, she could smell it, too. It was easily the most disgusting scent to have invaded her nose, and she wondered if this was anything like what Malys had gone through when eating that charred skeever hide of hers.

Without trying to think about it, she inhaled—and promptly gagged.

Immediately, the colors of the land washed over one another, and became bright and saturated. The world spun before her in every direction, and she screwed her eyes shut to block out the overwhelming imagery.

She opened them again at length, and noticed that the world had stopped turning, though the colors ran worse than ever. Her gaze was locked before the tree, and she saw its branches undulating in a way that had nothing to do with the wind. Ghostly skeevers cavorted around its roots, sniffing at Cosette curiously.

_Breathe deep, mortal_. A sibilant voice, cold and haughty, echoed through the hallucinogenic scene. _I would have you hear me well; so let these vapors fill your lungs_.

A corner of Cosette's mind was still sensible enough to hear this. _Peryite?_ she guessed. _What's going on here? Did that cat poison me?_

_No more than a fool after too much wine_, the Daedric Prince said nonchalantly. _A lesser mortal than you would be cast adrift in the dreamless sleep of the drunk._

_But you are _here_ because you have proved most intriguing to me. I have watched you for a long while, and you have made some very … _interesting_ decisions in your life. You may prove to be an able agent for a task of mine._

_Task._ Cosette felt an uneasy confusion at the word—not to mention Peryite's apparent curiosity in what she had done for herself. _What kind of 'task'?_

A shadow moved across the bleary image of the sun, and Cosette saw a massive winged shape hovering there, though it was too far away to make out anything further.

_I sent a blessing to Mundus some years past_, Peryite said smugly, _and spread my most wasting plague to a number of villages in High Rock. Further, I bid one of my monks—a Bosmer, Orchendor by name—to collect the Afflicted left in its wake. I prepared them an ideal home in the ruins of Bthardamz—but Orchendor has since lost his way._

The sky darkened, and became suffused in the color of blood. _I _willnot_ stand for this betrayal,_ hissed the Prince, as fire leaped from the now-scorched earth and licked the air around a surprised Cosette. _You will go to Bthardamz, and you will put this treacherous shepherd and his flock to the sword in my name!_

Cosette recovered from the change in scenery. _What has he done to 'lose his way'?_ she asked.

_Impertinent. Irrelevant._ Peryite's voice hissed like a swordblade in the wind. _He is to die all the same. You will carry out my will—or you will not. You are not the only agent I have at my disposal._

Cosette hardened her face defiantly. _You think I care about any of this?_ she cried at the winged form in the sky. _You know why I'm here. You know what I want._

An icy cackle filled the air, and the hellish landscape slowly faded around her. _Ah, the _pettiness_ of mortals,_ Peryite sneered. _Very well. Return when the blood of Orchendor stains Bthardamz' streets, and the escutcheon called Spellbreaker shall be yours to use as you see fit._

_That's all I needed to hear, _Cosette said, satisfied. _Now get me out of here—I can't well kill anyone if I'm drugged up like a Khajiit on moon sugar now, can I?_

Peryite laughed thinly. _Indeed not_, he smirked as the vision finally began to fade. _ Kill the elf, and you shall receive your reward_.

* * *

It took a while before Cosette's head was free of the ghastly stench. When her head was sufficiently clear—which was more than she could say for Duphraime, who appeared to have fallen into a drugged sleep in the midst of his prayers—she made her way to Kesh.

"Bthardamz," she coughed. "Where is it?"

The Khajiit smiled, and pointed further to the west. Cosette followed his claw, and saw a large number of the Dwemer's telltale golden towers a fair distance away. Her heart rose considerably—she'd been worried of having to trek all the way to the other end of Skyrim again; Daedric Princes were wont to treat mortals that way.

Hoisting her pack once again, then, she gave Kesh a perfunctory wave, and started on her way down the slope.

_How much does Peryite know about my life?_ Cosette wondered. She would not deign herself arrogant enough to be able to claim to understand their ways; the Daedra could be cunning and subtle, or blunt and candid, and could switch between any of those moods as easily as they could switch gender and form.

But the remark from the Prince had disturbed her greatly; there was much about her life she had withheld from public knowledge. The College, and Malys and Vinye, while certainly more open and understanding than she'd anticipated, could never know the whole story—not unless Cosette had no other choice but to tell them personally.

She'd only just reached the dirt path leading to Bthardamz when two children nearly ran headlong into her. They were Nords, each as fair-haired as the other, and their blue eyes looked very frightened.

"What's going on here?" she asked, her voice stern but concerned—not many families in the Reach had children, and those that did would surely have never let their own wander out and about in such a dangerous part of Skyrim. "What are you doing out here all by yourselves?"

While his companion caught his breath, the other child related his story to Cosette. "Bottar and I were playing near this old dwarven bridge down that way," he explained, pointing towards the northwest, "and these two men in brown robes scared us off!"

"They said they'd have our skulls for pestles!" chimed in Bottar. "We never ran so fast in our lives, did we, Sond?" Sond nodded.

"_Brown_ robes?" Cosette asked them. Something about that didn't sound right. _Surely it can't be …_ "Can you tell me what they looked like?" she asked the children. "Eyes, faces, anything?"

The one called Sond though for a moment. "Oh, yeah!" he said. "They had tattoos all over their faces. Orange tattoos—like they were shooting fire from their eyes and mouths. Kind of … like … yours … "

Cosette didn't notice that Sond had trailed off, and was pointing at her own tattoos in sudden horror; alarm bells by the dozen had been set off in her head, and she felt a cold sweat dripping down her neck.

_No. That can't be. They can't be here!_

Ignoring Sond and Bottar's cries, she pulled them closer to her, and bent down till she was at eye level with them. "Listen to me, and listen good," she said in hushed tones. "There's a redoubt just to the north of here. You run over there, and don't you dare stop, not for _anything_. If anyone asks, just say that Cosette sent you. Those two men won't get to you in there. Understand?"

They nodded, and sprinted away from the Breton as though a whole flock of dragons were hot on their heels. Cosette, meanwhile, resumed her trek westward with a combination of trepidation and renewed vigor.

Her heart leapt in her throat as she saw two forms approach from opposite Bthardamz, round the corner of the road, and walk towards her. As they drew closer, Cosette could see more of them in detail: they were male, and wore hooded robes of brown trimmed with gold weave. Each of them had a crude stone dagger thrust into their belt.

Quick as a flash, she readied a firebolt in each hand, and blasted them at the feet of the two men. "One more step," she growled, trying her damnedest to not betray her own uneasiness. "One more step, I dare you! That'll be enough reason for me to tear you apart and bathe my blade in your blood."

The two men looked at each other, and lowered their hoods in tandem, revealing shaved heads and ornamental earrings made from the skulls of young rock warblers. Tattoos of orange flames—identical to her facial markings—licked their eyelids and their lips.

"Spoken like a true Ionsaithe," said one of them, smiling warmly—his sharpened teeth notwithstanding.

Cosette lowered her hands, shocked beyond belief as the flames flickered and died. "I didn't want to believe those kids," she said softly, "that you of all people would be out here."

She took a step forward. "So you sent that letter, then?" She brandished the slip of parchment in one hand, waving it in front of their faces, while her other hand toyed with her Forsworn blade. "Come on, then—what do a pair of Cullers know about my clan?"

"We merely _intercepted_ the letter," said the smiling Culler. "When we saw who it was for, we knew to go to Winterhold posthaste."

"Have you been looking for me this whole time?" Cosette asked suspiciously.

The Culler's grin widened. "That would imply we lost you in the first place, Cosette."

Cosette was afraid that had been the case, but that still didn't stop her from feeling extremely uneasy that these people had managed to keep tabs on her from all the way across the province—or that they still knew her by name after all these years.

The other Breton was more serious than his companion. "The remnants of your clan fled to Skyrim after the siege of Dragonstar, and the War of the Bend'r-mahk," he said. "They spread throughout the Reach, growing in numbers and in name, and when the Forsworn came to power, many of them were assimilated into their camps.

"That much you know," he continued. "But many elected to stay in High Rock. They propagated throughout the land, interbreeding with the other clans of the province. Though the clan as a whole is still very much alive, there are very few pureblooded Ionsaithes left in Tamriel," he said solemnly. "And with the heavy casualties sustained as a result of the Forsworn uprising, he believed you were the only pureblood still alive."

"He?" Cosette frowned. "Who exactly sent this letter?"

"The author's identity remains a mystery," said the first Culler, still smiling. "But it's not hard to guess. A single pure Ionsaithe has enough power in their blood to decimate an entire company of Imperial battlemages—power that the Forsworn craves more than anything. Even their wish to take back the land that was stolen from them."

Cosette's head was spinning. She knew about the Ionsaithe clan's abilities—and had even used them in her fight against that wispmother. Vinye and Malys hadn't ventured to inquire about its true nature, though; they had foolishly assumed it to be a simple absorption ward, when in reality it had the potential to be something far more deadly. But to hear that the Forsworn wanted this power …

The second Culler cleared his throat. "We drift too far," he said abruptly. "That letter was sent to you, Ionsaithe, because its author made a discovery that concerned your family. Your _immediate_ family."

_What?_ Cosette's eyes grew wider. "Are you saying—?"

"Yes," the first Culler said. "You are not the last of your kind, Cosette. Your mother and father are still out there."

Cosette's knees buckled, and it took every last ounce of her willpower to not sink to her knees at the revelation. "How do you know all this?" she whispered. "Where are they now? _Tell me_!"

"We dare not ask," said the other gruffly. "To do so would invite too much suspicion. The Forsworn believe us to be little more than legends—myths and tales of caution and vigilance. But we have infiltrated their camps, yet we have found no corpses with hair or tattoos that match the fire of your own."

Cosette frowned. "Then they must have returned to High Rock—reformed the clan. Every tribe needs purebloods to survive—otherwise they're nothing more than a litter of mongrels."

The second Culler made a growling noise. "Know your place, Ionsaithe. You may share their blood, but you would do well to share the same high regard we hold for your own family!"

"I know who I am!" Cosette hissed through her teeth. "I am Ionsaithe. I am _invincible_."

She unsheathed her blade, quick as a wink, and brought it to an attack stance. "Now—do you want an object lesson on the meaning of the word, or are you going to let me be on my way?"

The two Cullers looked at each other once more. Finally, they stepped aside, though the first Culler reached inside his robes as he did so. "Those two children," he said, pulling something from his pocket. "They dropped this when we ran them out of Deep Folk Crossing. We think it might be of use to you in your current … _endeavor_."

He placed a very strange object inside Cosette's hands—a sort of bluish, crystalline half-moon, a little less than a foot wide, with a toothy protrusion the size of her fist jutting out from the concave. It pulsed with a pale light, and tingled against her skin.

"What is it?" she asked, finding herself unable to tear her eyes off it. "Is it Dwemer?"

"We think so," said the second Culler, "but we have never concerned ourselves with the creations of the dwarves. And our advice to you, Ionsaithe, is that you stop pursuing the same."

Cosette narrowed her eyes, and leveled her sword at the Breton. "You don't get to order me around," she snarled. The Cullers have no command structure—no physical leader at all. _I_ do what _I_ want—it's as simple as that."

The Culler didn't blink. "Only so long as you bear in mind the oath you swore in your own blood!"

And then suddenly, he reached out and grabbed Cosette by the scruff of her robes, pulling her in close. The Breton could taste his rancid breath; were it not for her experience with Peryite, she might have fainted then and there.

"You are Ionsaithe," the Culler hissed in her ear. "But you are also one of _us_, and you cannot hide behind your family name forever, whelp. Because if you forget for even one moment that you still have a duty to fulfill … then the Forsworn will forget _their_ duty as well."

The Culler threw Cosette back from him; she stumbled, but did not fall. At a nod from his companion, the Cullers replaced their hoods upon their heads without a word, and continued on their journey, leaving behind a very disconcerted Cosette.

The Breton didn't move from her spot until she was absolutely sure that the two men had disappeared in the distance. Her communion with Peryite had been forgotten, if only for the moment.

She entertained the Culler's last words in her head. _You still have a duty to fulfill …_

_I know my duty_, Cosette thought resolutely, as she resumed her journey to Bthardamz. _I went to Winterhold to be strong—stronger than them, the Forsworn, or anyone._

_What I do … I do for my family._

_For my name._

* * *

The Dwarven ruins here were markedly different from Rkund, Cosette saw—and not just in their size and sprawl.

The same vines she had seen infesting Peryite's shrine seemed to be sprouting from the stone itself. Some of them bore bulbous, glowing shoots, whose smell reminded her of the sewers of Markarth even from a full house-length away. Scrunching up her nose, she ascended a stone staircase.

Two Bretons in mismatched robes and armor blocked the gate. Their skin was red as a ruby. _Just like Duphraime_, thought Cosette. Wordlessly, she unhooked her Forsworn blade from her robe, and readied her fire spells.

She had always liked fire, ever since she was little. High in the Druadach Mountains were giant coniferous trees, some reportedly standing as high as Direnni Tower itself; at a young age, she had learned from her mother that they could only grow in the wake of a destructive forest fire, as their seeds were extremely tough, and could only be cracked by the most intense of heat.

_Fire is nature's greatest and most terrible balance_, her mother had said that day. _ It is a destroyer of civilizations … but it is also a creator of worlds. A disease, and yet a cure._

The Afflicted moved to intercept. The one in the robes charged up a frost spell, and his right hand hissed as it released a chilling blast of air from his palm. It was slow on the move, though, and Cosette dodged it easily.

The other Afflicted, however, threw back his head as if to shout at the top of his lungs at her. Cosette, still in midair after dodging the ice storm, watched in fascinated horror as his lips boiled with sickening green sludge—and literally _fired_ it at her like a weapon. His aim was abysmal, though, and the projectile splashed harmlessly a few feet in front of her. The stone hissed noisily as the vomit actually melted through the smoothly cut rock, leaving a misshapen, boiling hole in its wake.

Cosette stared wild-eyed at the sight, thinking privately that this task of Peryite's was becoming less and less worth it by the minute. _I can't let that hit me_, she thought, _or I'll be finished for sure_.

The Afflicted mage moved to release his own mucinous missile, but Cosette was already upon him: she charged headlong for him until she was merely inches away, then fed him a whole foot of her sword. The crude but brutal lashing ripped into the Afflicted's throat, emerging from the base of his spine, and Cosette saw his stomach bulge slightly green with the backfire as she frantically kicked his body away.

"You won't even live to regret that!" The other Afflicted moved to carve up her face with the dagger in his hand, but Cosette had already charged up her magic. The flaming missile hit the Breton full in the chest, burning through his diseased heart in a matter of seconds and killing him instantly.

Cosette saw no more guards as she proceeded through the exterior of Bthardamz; indeed, the only resistance she was met with was a pair of levers. One activated a spinning blade concealed in the staircase; thankfully, Cosette was able to get out of its range before deactivating the trap. The other lowered a spiked wall, leading to a door set into the rock.

Exhaling briefly, preparing herself for the journey ahead, Cosette stepped into Bthardamz.

* * *

Bretons had always been on the runty side, particularly the females, but Cosette was short even among her own race—both in stature and in temper. It wasn't a common sight, then, that could make her feel even smaller than the even five feet she stood.

Bthardamz was one of those sights. Where Rkund had seemingly been nothing but down, down, down, Bthardamz was here, there, and everywhere—it was absolutely _sprawling_. Even the corridors of the city—lit by gas-powered lamps, and more of the thick green glop she'd inhaled at Peryite's shrine, could have swallowed the towers of Markarth in a single gulp.

Cosette froze suddenly as she heard a pair voices in the distance, somewhere in a room off to her right. She brought spell and sword at the ready without a sound.

"Another request from Orchendor?" Grating, and choleric.

"Yes, brother," Meek, and subservient. "Our shepherd needs more of the ichor delivered to the Arcanex tomorrow. He believes using it alongside the machinery there will help him commune with Peryite."

A grunt. "I delivered ten barrels to him hours ago! You try me with your incompetence."

"Apologies, brother. The blessings of our Lord go with you."

Another grunt. "Yes, yes. Now leave me to my rest and go back to your post."

There was silence, then, broken only by the sound of padded footfalls coming closer. Cosette's breath caught in her throat as her boot slipped on some loose rubble.

_Damn it_.

"Hmm?" The meek voice instantly became alert at the noise, and Cosette backed up against the wall, watching for any sign of movement. A balding head peeked out—and was immediately sliced off at the neck by Cosette, who caught the armored body and laid it carefully to the floor so as not to make any more unnecessary noise.

Thirty seconds later, the old man to whom he had been speaking to had had his throat slit in his sleep, and Cosette moved on without a word.

She continued to fight more Afflicted as she delved deeper into Bthardamz, which was fast becoming a labyrinthine network without any hint of any definite entrance or exit. The passageways were becoming increasingly confusing to navigate, and it did not help that the wrong ways contained plenty of automatons waiting to spring out at luckless adventurers—she'd found that out the hard way after having to blow up no less than six spiders with a very hastily drawn rune.

After half an hour of fighting men and machines alike, Cosette's body was badly singed and smelled of spilt oil from all the automatons she'd come across. She fervently hoped Tolfdir was right about there being running water in Dwarven ruins—if she kept going on smelling like this, sneaking around would be impossible.

At length, she came upon a huge chamber, high and wide enough to fit a full quarter of Markarth. A number of Afflicted were situated inside, all of them gathered around a large, thin totem carved in the likeness of a dragon, and surrounded by more of the green slime. She decided to hold here for a moment, catch her breath and plan ahead—there were too many in there to take on at once. No—this was going to take some strategy.

"Peryite, heed our call if you deem us worthy," Cosette heard one of the Afflicted say, and guessed her to be some kind of priestess. "Our shepherd has led us here, and for that we are thankful. He has shown us that our suffering is not a punishment, but a blessing."

Cosette took a quick scan of the room. Three, four, five, ten, fifteen Afflicted—all of them too spread out for her firebolts to be effective.

"Yes," echoed the congregation, "a blessing."

Her eyes alighted on the glowing goop. _Unless …_

A second Afflicted spoke up, this one male. "We have sought your guidance for months on end, yet have heard nothing from you. If we do not please you, Peryite, give us a sign so that we may understand why."

It was time to test a theory—and perhaps show off a little now that Vinye and Malys weren't around to see what she was really capable of.

"Yes, a sign," chorused the Afflicted.

"We are lost without your guidance," said the priestess, and Cosette could hear the mixture of fear and faith in her trembling voice. "On the ninth of Rain's Hand our prayers went unanswered, yet here we stand. We will not falter in our faith in you—and we believe that you will show yourself to us."

Both her hands began to burn with fire—at exactly the same time, and at exactly the same temperature—and she brought them together slowly but surely. She would only get one shot at this.

"Yes, we believe."

"And until that day comes, we will continue to devote our lives to you … and suffer in your name."

"Yes, suffer."

Fifteen heads whirled around and upward at the voice that did not belong to any of them.

_Now_.

Cosette, grinning like a madwoman at the congregation below, released her fiery missile directly at the base of the totem, and threw up a ward right as the supercharged fireball made contact with the slime.

The slime _exploded_. A massive flaming sphere erupted inside the chamber with a thunderous roar. None of the Afflicted lived long enough to know what happened before the conflagration consumed them, leaving nothing but charred remains and the stench of burning flesh in its wake.

Only when the last of the flames had died did Cosette finally drop her ward. The shockwave had turned her red hair nearly black, and the heat had curled and frayed it severely. But she didn't care about that right now—the euphoria of what she had just done carried her like wings, and she felt like she could fly.

But she knew deep down that she had to remain calm. This was just another infiltration for her—one of many she'd undertaken in her life. It didn't matter if all of Bthardamz knew she was here now; if they were not prepared for her, then her mission was already complete. All that was left to do was clean up the mess.

_Just like the Cullers_, she thought. _All those camps, those redoubts and caves—it's starting to feel like old times again_.

She swung open a set of metal doors. They opened into a dimly lit pavilion as wide as the College courtyard—and yet it was still dwarfed by the immense cavern in which she'd just walked into.

All thoughts of her past memories—of the Afflicted, of the College and the Cullers, vanished at the sight of it all; she sank to her knees, it was too much to take in.

_I am _so_ lost_.

* * *

One hour, two dozen Afflicted, and three dwarven spiders later, a badly battered Cosette had finally managed to drag herself into a secluded alcove where she could heal herself. Water spilled in front of her from a broken pipe high above; she greedily drank from it and stood within it, letting all the soot, oil, vomit stains, and general filth wash off her ruined clothing. She was tempted to go the distance and take a full-blown shower—Gods only knew the last time she'd had one of those—but there was no telling when more Afflicted patrols might show up, and she doubted she had Malys' capacity for seduction (she grimaced at her _very_ loose use of the word) to complement her figure—or that the Afflicted would just as soon kill a naked young woman just as they would any other man or mer.

Cosette looked mournfully at her hands—one of the Afflicted she'd killed had managed to graze her unscarred hand with that damned poisonous vomit. The worst of it had been healed, but the wounds had bubbled and hissed more than they ought to as they sealed up. The flesh around her wrist and fingers was left knotted and bumpy, like badly kneaded dough, and Cosette suspected there might be some scarring if she wasn't careful—her healing magic could only go so far. Wounds this severe would need some very potent restoration potions.

Cosette noticed a small dwelling nearby, one that didn't look like it had any connection to the rest of the ruins. Her spirits lifted—there might be some potions in there, or even an alchemy lab. Maybe if she was lucky, there was a bed inside as well, and she could rest herself mentally and physically before her inevitable confrontation with this Orchendor.

She walked toward it, and entered the dwelling without a sound.

There was no alchemy table within sight, which was regrettable, but the presence of several large red bottles on the ledge opposite her more than made up for that. Surely that would be enough to restore her malformed hand and—

"Are you asleep?"

Cosette froze in her tracks when she heard the voice _right there_.

"I know you can't hear me, brother," said the voice of a young woman off to Cosette's left. A partition separated the two apart; neither knew the other was there. "But I don't like what we've become."

Cosette managed to calm her thundering heart after what felt like hours. As silently as she could, she reached for her Forsworn blade and crept closer to the edge of the grating.

"We've been here so long," the woman continued, "and what do we have to show for it?" Her voice was near to tears. "Orchendor promised us a place where we'd be accepted, taken care of. He promised Peryite would be present at all times, and give us comfort in our suffering."

Cosette heard a wet sniffle. "Forgive me, brother, but I have not felt Peryite's presence. Not for a long time."

Something shifted, and Cosette heard boots upon the stone. "I want out. I want to leave this place. I want to breathe the air of High Rock once again, to see our mother and father in Daggerfall. But the more I see their faces, the sicker I become … and the more I know I'll never see them again."

A scornful, pitiful laugh. "But who am I kidding?" she said. Cosette imagined a tearful smile, resigned to her fate as she stroked her sleeping brother's hair. "You'd never let me leave anyway, would you? I know how devoted you are to Orchendor—how you believe in his promises with all your heart.

"I also know this place is going to be the death of us. It's only a matter of time now. … But I will always regret that one summer day when I introduced you to Orchendor."

Cosette heard the faintest hint of a kiss. "Sleep well—for both of us … Kastus Ionsaithe."

_Ionsaithe?!_

And then, before she even knew what she had done, Cosette had launched from her hiding place, unsheathed her sword, and landed in a three-point attack stance all in one fluid movement. The red-haired woman sitting in the stone chair before her was too surprised to attack, but had enough wits about her not to shout in panic, and thereby wake her brother.

Cosette looked at the man in the stone bed. The tattoos were different—he wore two dark green streaks running from each eye to each ear, his sister a single bright red line extending horizontally from her lips. But the man's hair was just as red as her sister's … _just as red as mine_.

Cosette lowered her blade. "You're part of the Ionsaithe clan?" she whispered—not out of respect for the weary, but of total shock and disbelief. She willed herself to take a few steps closer, show the woman her own flaming hair, the orange tattoos that signified her heritage, and she saw the look of silent comprehension dawn on her face. But the woman did not rise to embrace her—perhaps because she wouldn't, perhaps because she couldn't—she was sick, and Cosette could see a simple cane next to the chair.

The woman swallowed, and her eyes became downcast. "No," she sniffled. "The Ionsaithe clan doesn't exist anymore. We mingled too much with the other clans in order to survive—the power we once possessed is too watered-down to have any leverage now."

_Mongrels_. Cosette's own words floated up from her memory. "My parents are Ionsaithe," she said. "_Pure_ Ionsaithe—and so am I. I'd been searching for them for the longest time, and I was told that they're still alive." She took another step closer to the woman. "Don't you see? We can still rebuild the clan! We can become the name that sent fear through Jehanna and Evermor, and chilled the blood of King Eadwyre himself!"

The sickly woman stood up with a vigor that belied her state of health. "Jehanna is gone!" she hissed through her teeth. "Evermor has been wiped out!" She coughed, and slowly returned to her seat.

"Haven't you been listening to me?" she said, as if it were as simple as adding one to one. "The Ionsaithe clan doesn't _exist_ anymore. Everywhere we settled, Peryite's plague followed. Our clan is all dead or dying because we chose to put our trust in that thrice-cursed monk."

Cosette didn't hear her sword slip out of her suddenly numb fingers and clatter to the stone. _Dead … dying?_ " … What does Orchendor have to do with all this?"

"You know better than any of us what the Ionsaithes are capable of, _pureblood_!" the Afflicted spat derisively. "And so did Peryite. He dreamed of making a plague that could bypass the most perfect magickal barrier that Tamriel could ever produce … and he succeeded.

"When Orchendor learned of his master's success, he rounded us up, and herded us like cattle into this crumbling ruin. He experimented on us, the damnable elf. He knew through Peryite of the Ionsaithe clan's special traits, and he wanted them for himself. And when Peryite discovered the elf's treachery, he turned his back on him … on us."

Cosette was only dimly aware of the red haze filling her vision; a burning hatred, hotter than any fire she'd conjured before, was coursing through her body like molten iron. _He experimented on dying human beings?_

_On my kinsmen?! My _family?!

"I don't know who or what brought you here," said the woman sorrowfully. "But if you said you were looking for your family … " She indicated herself and Kastus, shaking her head. "This is the best you're likely to find."

Cosette took a deep breath—she figured it was only fair she come clean. "Peryite sent me here," she said, and she registered the woman's look of surprise, and then resignation. "He wants me to kill Orchendor."

The woman bowed her head. "Then you've got a long road ahead of you," she said. "We aren't the only Ionsaithes in Bthardamz. The only way through to the Arcanex—to Orchendor—is through the lower district of the city, and that's where he keeps the worst of the Afflicted … that's where he keeps what's left of our clan."

Cosette felt her breath stop in her throat. She knew what was coming now—somehow, she knew what the answer to her forthcoming question was going to be.

"Will they recognize me?"

The Afflicted sighed. "Would it make you feel better if they did?"

Cosette balled her hands into fists, unwilling to accept this. "Then I'll have to kill them, won't I?"

She nodded. "There's no other way."

"But this is my _clan_ we're talking about!" Cosette protested. "I've been trying to bring the Ionsaithe name back to power for five years, and now you're telling me to wipe them out? That it was all for nothing?!"

"What else could you do?" the woman hissed. Her brother stirred in his bed, but did not wake, only mumbling slightly under his breath.

When the Afflicted next spoke, it was softer and heavier, filled with regret. "We were never a peaceful clan, you know. We were nomads, warriors—never truly at home unless we were on the battlefield. Orchendor saw our philosophy as a blight—but even with this accursed disease, we never forgot the truth."

Cosette frowned. "And what about you?"

A pause. "You heard me talking to Kastus," the Afflicted said. "I knew I was going to die in this place a long time ago—I've already made my peace. All I ask … is that you do me the same honor as you will the rest of our clan."

When Cosette looked back on it later, it still scared her how quickly she made her decision then.

She swallowed, and slowly nodded. "Better to die as a soldier … than to live as an animal," she said, retrieving her Forsworn blade from the floor.

"No," said the Afflicted. "Better to _die_ as an animal … than to live as a slave."

Cosette lifted her blade, trying to think about something else—_anything_—besides what she knew she would have to do.

" … What's your name?" she asked after a while.

" … Marienne," said the Afflicted. She'd closed her eyes now, and looked peaceful.

"Marienne … that's a lovely name," Cosette said sweetly. The blade drew back.

Marienne Ionsaithe never made a sound as Cosette ran her through, the Forsworn sword piercing her heart and splintering her ribs. Blood pooled on the stone floor, and she smelled defecation.

It seemed to take forever for Marienne to die, but when she finally did, Cosette stood there for a long time, unable to comprehend what she had just done. Kastus continued to sleep, oblivious to what had just happened in the waking world.

Duphraime's words echoed in her mind. _Killing me would be an act of mercy_.

"Mercy."

_Better to die as an animal …_

" … than to live as a slave," Cosette finished. At length, she raised her blade, its crude ivory teeth still dripping with blood, and turned to the still-sound-asleep Kastus.

It was time to make a choice, she knew. The duty of the Cullers … or the survival of her clan.

This time, when Cosette looked back on it later, she was not scared by her decision at all. It was simply no contest.

* * *

The Cosette that emerged from the dwarven dwelling was far different from the one who had entered it some time ago. The potions inside had healed her melted hand, but the change was not so much physical as it was mental. Her round face was lined, the tattooed lips pursed and wrinkled, and her eyes smoldered with a flame more potent than any of her fire spells. Cosette wasn't furious—she wasn't even merely angry.

Marienne had pushed her over the edge; she was now in that state of mind where the cadence of her heartbeat and her footsteps were equally measured, and she imagined that if Vinye and Malys were here beside her, then her voice would be just as calm and even as well in spite of everything she'd seen and heard today.

In other words, Cosette was _angry_.

Kastus' blood still dripped from her swordblade as she continued on her way to the lower district of Bthardamz, never pausing in her step—not even to dispatch the two Afflicted guarding the doors. One went down to a salvo of firebolts before he could unsheathe his weapon, and she toppled off the edge. The other moved to intercept, and he too died, moaning faintly as Cosette ran him through without breaking her stride.

Cosette only stopped for a moment then, to catch her breath and open the door to the lower sections of the city. Her mind felt surprisingly clear—she had been worried that Marienne's words would have stirred it up into a maelstrom of thoughts and ill wishes to Orchendor.

Somewhat boldly, she privately hoped that the wood elf was ready for her.

Because she was definitely ready to face him now.

The double doors yawned open, and Cosette stepped over the threshold. There was no turning back now, she knew.

_What I do … I do for my family._

_For my clan._

* * *

The door opened into a large, well-lit arena—the largest one she'd yet encountered, even with the collapse of an entire corner. She imagined what it must have been like in its heyday—hundreds of Dwemer could easily have fit into this chamber.

Another totem had been erected on the plinth in the center, and a few Afflicted were gathered around it, praying silently. Even from here, Cosette could see they shared the same flaming red hair.

_Ionsaithes_.

There was no way she could sneak up to them. However, Cosette did see a lever tucked away behind a bench. She got on all fours, and crept her way to the contraption, staying out of sight and earshot of the Afflicted. Silently, she pulled the lever, and quickly popped her head upward to see the effect.

She was still too slow—by the time she'd leapt up, the Afflicted were already dead; no less than four threshing blades had erupted from the plinth, and they wasted no time in scything through flesh and bone like gossamer, throwing parts of the Afflicted in every direction and spattering blood and green ichor everywhere.

Cosette failed to suppress a shudder at the inhumanity of the device; she had no more of an idea than they did that the mechanism would have worked the way it did. It certainly raised some questions about the original purpose of the arena as well. How cruel were the Dwemer to have even conceived of such a room? And how cruel was she to have used that contraption just now—on members of her own clan, no less—and not feel any sort of regrets whatsoever?

She wanted to break down then and there, she wanted nothing more than to just let it all out and cry and scream and tear this ruin down with her bare hands. But every time she tried, that anger just kept getting stronger.

Cosette was not angry at herself—how could she be? She had no idea what she was getting into. No—it was Peryite, and Orchendor, that damned traitor. She felt that anger boiling up inside her, and it was taking more and more of her concentration to keep a level head—to keep that anger controlled—each time she continued to slay a man or woman she might one day have called part of her clan.

Bthardamz, for its part, was also doing its best to try Cosette's patience. Just when she'd thought the ruin would never become any more confusing to navigate, she'd take another wrong turn, or go in a complete circle and not even know it. At least there were enough Dwemer automatons to provide a welcome respite from the Afflicted—and the Ionsaithes among them.

Once, a pair of Dwemer sphere-men had joined in a fight against no less than a dozen Afflicted over a vast bridge that spanned the entire cavern within the district. Cosette wasn't sure if she'd activated them, or if the Afflicted had—or even if the rolling golems had sensed their presence and activated on their own. By then, her controlled anger had streamlined her thought process to the point where the only thought in her mind was being repeated over and over like a war chant: _get to Orchendor_.

Finally—at long last—she reached the door to the Arcanex, and with a physical strength she didn't know she had after spending so much time fighting just about everything this ruin could throw at her, Cosette pulled it open so hard she could have sworn she'd heard the hinges strain against the stone.

The chamber beyond was unlike anything Cosette had yet experienced in Bthardamz; a natural, sunlit grotto dominated by many Dwemer towers rising from the waters below. The overgrowth of the vines in this chamber was worse than ever—some of the towers had been collapsed by the sheer weight of the thick plants.

But Cosette wasn't here to admire the scenery. Orchendor was here; some voice in her head was telling her this—he had to be. And so she continued on her way.

The spiraling ramps took her a hundred feet, perhaps more, above the bottomless pool, eventually taking her to the threshold of a massive hallway that stretched on into darkness. She could hear a noise in the distance, coming from somewhere on the other end, and it sounded vaguely familiar to her: a clump-clump-clump noise, like a giant blacksmith's hammer striking stone, as regular as her own heartbeat.

For one moment, the anger that had been festering in her head wavered slightly, and a comparatively tiny amount of fear crept into her mind. Those were footsteps she was hearing—giant metal footsteps.

And they were getting closer.

The dwarven centurion chose that moment to step out of the shadows. It stared down at Cosette with impassive golden eyes worked into the unmoving metal face. Twelve feet tall, and filling the hallway completely, the massive golem spread out its hammer-and-halberd arms, blocking Cosette from going any further.

Whether Orchendor had charmed this automaton into protecting him, or the centurion was still fulfilling its duties four thousand years onward, Cosette did not know, and neither did she care.

It was in her way.

The monstrosity tilted backward just a little bit, and only Cosette's experience with the Afflicted saved her; she erected a ward at the exact moment the behemoth expelled a blast of scalding steam from its mouth. She felt a vaguely choking heat wash over her, not unlike the volcanic springs of Eastmarch, but the ward had stopped the worst of the attack.

The centurion charged, but Cosette remained where she stood, analyzing the automaton. It was big, and she bet three to two it hit like an angry mammoth. But the golem had very few joints in its construction, and it moved and attacked much more clumsily than an ordinary human as a result. Four thousand years of continuous operation probably hadn't been kind to it, either.

Factoring in all that, Cosette guessed this whole automaton was one big weak point. But it was still more than twice her height, which restricted her choice of targets to only one logical selection.

She charged a fireball, and fired at the centurion's groin as she charged. Right as she drew level with the monster, Cosette drew her sword and swung at the gyros inside with all her might. There was a loud CLANG as ivory struck metal, and the vibrations from the impact nearly caused Cosette to drop the blade. But the impact had been sufficient; something shrieked within the casing, and the centurion tumbled down the stairs and into the water. The arms still continued to twitch, and steam still billowed from the body—it was still operational, but Cosette's swordsmanship had ensured it would never walk again.

The Breton did not even allow herself a moment of congratulations—she was nearer to her goal than ever, and she didn't know how much longer she could contain her anger before having to let it out on the next best thing to Orchendor. And so she continued on, and the darkness of the hallway swallowed her whole.

She didn't know how long she walked that shadowy passage, but eventually she saw the welcome glow of light appear in front of her. She turned right, and the hallway suddenly opened up into another massive arena. There were pipes everywhere—on the walls, the ceiling, and even the floor, all of them thick enough for her to crawl through. But Cosette's focus was on the massive totem of Peryite in the exact center of the room—the locus of the myriad of glowing green-and-yellow vines that wound around everything within reach.

And prostrated before it, apparently without any knowledge that she was behind him, was Orchendor.

Before Cosette could stop herself, the dam finally burst. The impassive expression she'd only just been able to maintain for the past several hours finally crumbled, and her lips split in a feral growl that changed into a terrible, strangled scream as she charged for the Bosmer.

"MURDERER!"

Orchendor turned around at the sound of Cosette's screech; if the Breton's mind had been more sound, she might have been worried at how composed the old, white-haired elf appeared as he stared death in the face.

But there was no stopping Cosette now. The crazed woman was dead-set on destroying him once and for all; intent on slicing his windpipe open and roasting his throat with the hottest flames imaginable, on painting every inch of Bthardamz with his blood and bile, tearing into his flesh with her blade and her bare hands if need be, and inflicting every possible method of brutal and bloody injury to that gods-damned _psychopath_—

"Too much noise," said Orchendor calmly.

Suddenly, a familiar purple flame consumed him just as Cosette passed right where he'd been a second ago. One second later, both persons had disappeared from Bthardamz—indeed, from Mundus as they knew it.

* * *

The air had turned thick and choking, and Cosette had not expected to stumbled and fall upon dirt and loose rock. Shocked, she looked up; the ceiling of Bthardamz was no more, and in its place was the most hellish sky she'd ever seen—red and rusty brown with clouds, and crackling with lightning. She appeared to be on an island, except instead of water, there was searing hot lava.

_Teleportation_, she realized. _He teleported me! But … where to?_

"The Pits of Oblivion," Orchendor said, extending his arms around him. "Few mortals have the skills necessary to enter this place. Fewer still have the skills to survive."

He walked to Cosette, appraising her. "You're one of the Ionsaithe clan; I can tell by your hair. But there's something different about you, isn't there? Yes," he said, as Cosette stared defiantly back at him, hating him, "that power they talked about is much more potent within you, which must mean … you're a pureblood."

Orchendor grinned. "Peryite has given me a wonderful boon," he said, clapping his hands together. "You will tell me everything about this power, and after I've finished extracting it from your body, you will then join the rest of your clan as one of my Afflicted. It should only be fair for family to live with each other, shouldn't it?"

"Then you're going to have to kill me," Cosette snarled. "Because I killed them. All of them. I did it to save them from _you_."

Orchendor sighed. "You Ionsaithes always were a bull-headed bunch—always looking for an excuse to fight even in the midst of peace." He snapped his fingers. "But very well—I will grant your _dying wish_."

One flash of amethyst-colored flame later, and Cosette was back in Bthardamz—just in time to see Orchendor fire a spear of ice the size of a broadsword at her—larger and deadlier than Malys' frost magic could ever hope to be. Quickly as she could, Cosette fired two fireballs in response.

One fireball met Orchendor's ice spike, and the two missiles exploded against each other, sending shards flying every which way. The second fireball went straight for Orchendor. Its aim was straight and true—

—or at least, it would have been, if it suddenly didn't dissipate on contact with his black robes. This was so unexpected that for just one moment, Cosette forgot to be angry.

"How did you—"

"I learned much about your clan from Peryite," Orchendor gloated. "Their blood runs in my body—I'm just as much an Ionsaithe as you are! The greatest mage in the world could never touch me now!"

And just like that, Cosette was back to being angry again. "I'm more than a mage," she growled as she unhooked her Forsworn blade. "And you are no Ionsaithe, Orchendor. You're not even a half-blood, like all those Afflicted your master made me slaughter to get to you! You're a _mistake_—you should _never_ have happened to these people."

She leveled her blade at the Bosmer. "_I'm going to make sure of that!_" She screamed another war cry, and charged.

Orchendor was ready for her. Another click of his fingers, and another violet portal sent them into the Pits—but not before Cosette had sliced into his robe near the shoulder. The Bosmer grimaced, but did not cry out in pain.

Cosette didn't care. "That was just the first cut," she hissed. "Next time it'll be two. Then four, then eight. Each time I'm going to double the wounds on your body until you're _nothing_ but a _bloody stain on my blade_."

Orchendor stumbled to his feet. "Then don't waste time talking," he goaded her. "If you're so angry at me, then kill me already! I have better things to do then listen to talk of ven—"

He never finished his sentence. Cosette had lunged for him, too enraged to even speak. The Forsworn blade flashed once; it was the last thing Orchendor saw before his head parted company with the rest of his body. The slain wood elf toppled backward to the ruined ground, and his head sailed into the sea of lava with the force of the Breton's deathblow.

Cosette looked at the headless corpse at her feet, feeling an urge to say _something_ after what she had just done. Eventually her brain settled on, "_Never_ tell an Ionsaithe to kill you."

And with that pithy one-liner, Cosette felt suddenly lighter-headed, much more so than she had ever felt before her journey into Bthardamz—before Winterhold, even. She felt … relieved.

But that did not mean she was happy, not at all. After what she'd had to do to go this far, Cosette doubted she'd ever be genuinely happy again.

_Orchendor is dead_, she thought, bowing her head and trying to fight back the tears, _but so is my clan_.

_The Ionsaithes are finished_.

A shadow filled the sky all of a sudden; Cosette looked up to see the same winged form she had seen when she'd inhaled those accursed fumes. Now that she saw it without their influence, it looked to her like a very large dragon, only with an extra set of arms under the wings, and much more serpentine and slender in its shape.

It dived downward, and alighted on the broken boulders with an earthshaking THUD. The neck dipped downward towards Orchendor's remains, and the beast opened its jaws and lazily extended a long tongue. With a casual flick, the slimy muscle looped around the wood elf's body, and dragged him into the maw, swallowing him in a gulp.

_Well done, mortal_, said the Daedric Prince of Pestilence, dipping its neck again toward Cosette. _All things are in their order, and Orchendor's soul has been consigned to these Pits for eternity. You may rest assured that his betrayal will be punished—and that your obedience has been rewarded._

A golden light gleamed at Cosette's feet, and she looked down to see a tower shield forming at her feet. It was definitely dwarven in construction, although it looked quite fragile in contrast to every other aspect of Dwemer construction. It was curiously shaped as well; Cosette noticed that it curved _outwards_ rather than inwards.

_So this is Spellbreaker …_

She carefully picked up the Dwemer relic, giving it only a cursory inspection before turning to the dragonlike creature before her. "You played a very dangerous game, Peryite," she said. "I hope you know that."

_And yet you chose to play it as well._ Peryite tilted his head in mock curiosity. _Why, I wonder?_

Cosette felt her anger surge back up again. "I just butchered who knows how much of my clan in that damnable ruin!" she screamed. "And for what—for _this_?" She brandished Spellbreaker in her hand. "As far as I'm concerned, you're no better than Orchendor!"

_Whatever connection you had to these Afflicted matters not to me_, sneered Peryite. _Were you thorough in your task?_

Cosette did not answer him. She stared back at him with smoldering eyes, channeling every single scrap of hatred she had for this monster into her eyesight, imagining the Daedra withering before her like a burning juniper tree.

_Hmm. That matters not, either. The Afflicted are mere vessels for my Blessing. It will spread to others through my own touch just as easily as theirs. As for Orchendor_, _a more … _able_ Overseer shall take his place when the time comes. For now, all has been cleansed and ordered._

_And _you—Peryite pointed a claw at Cosette—_are free to seek your own fate. Perhaps we shall meet again … afterwards._

Cosette's voice was icy and venomous. "You can say what you want, but at the end of the day, I was just another weapon to you, wasn't I? Just another tool."

She took a step towards the dragon, not even blinking. "I didn't kill my clan, Peryite—_you_ did. Don't try to justify it, because I will _never_ let that stand. I don't care if you _are_ a Daedric Lord—if I ever see you again, I will _kill you_."

The dragon showed its serrated teeth in a horrible imitation of a smile. _ Go now—embrace order and hard truth, mortal. Goodbye._

Before Cosette could say a word, the dragon had opened its jaws wide and swallowed her whole.

* * *

She smelled grass, and the sharp odor of juniper on the wind. _I'm … I'm alive?_

Her mind had not yet caught up with recent events—even now, distant parts of her were still a little slow in realizing that Peryite had transported her back to his shrine somehow—and had not, in fact, eaten her alive.

Cosette opened her eyes; she was back at Peryite's shrine. It was nighttime, and Secunda and Masser filled the sky completely. She turned her head to the left; Kesh was at his alchemy table. She turned to the right, and there was Duphraime, still prostrate at the withered tree. He appeared not to have moved at all since Cosette last saw him.

She stood up, leaning on the dwarven urn for support, and the Khajiit chose that moment to look up and see her.

"Ah! You have come back," he said, his voice strangely sad. "I am sorry about that one over there."

He pointed back towards Duphraime, shaking his head. "He succumbed within the last hour. His illness was too great. I can only hope that Peryite will provide him the respite he deserves."

Cosette felt numb as her mind caught up with what Kesh was telling her, and the Khajiit might as well have been talking to her from the other end of Skyrim for all the attention she was paying him.

Kesh passed a letter to her. "He wrote this, you know—a long time ago, in the hopes he would be able to see his family one day. Perhaps you could do Kesh a favor, and pass it along?"

Cosette unsealed the thick scroll of parchment with thick fingers, unrolled it, and began to read.

_Beloved, _

_I know you thought me a fool not to leave Cul Aloue with you and the others, but I couldn't abandon our children to the plague. Whatever fates you may have guessed for us, however, are far from the truth, and I send this letter in hopes that it will soothe a worried mind._

_A week after you left with the rest of the healthy folk, I was patrolling the wall. Kelter had taken ill by then, and was unfit to ride. I prayed no bandits would be foolish enough to risk infection for our trifling goods._

_Then, against the last rays of the sun, I saw a lone figure headed towards the village—an elf called Orchendor, and with him came a change in destiny for us all. He called us to assemble, crowding us into Cullete's barn; she was the most badly stricken, and unable to move without being carried by Orchendor himself._

_There, the good elf gave us tidings that none could have guessed: he claimed that the sickness was not a curse on our village, as we were sure it had been—but a boon, a beacon that drew him to us. He told us that he served the Daedric Prince Peryite._

_I know what you're thinking—Cul Aloue would never suffer the heresies of the Daedra. But we did, and not only that, but we raptly heard what he had to say. Maybe you think we were too sick, too weak, but we weren't._

_Orchendor wanted to take us to a new home, a place where we could live out our days in worship of Peryite as his chosen—his Afflicted. No one refused. Some were carried in carts and litters, but we all made the trek with him across the border into Skyrim._

_We have since lived in refuge, inside the ruins of an ancient Dwemer city. There are others here, too, many with tales much like ours, bound together by our divine illness. But this "sickness" no longer weakens us, but give us strength. We heal ourselves with concoctions that other men would call poison. And Orchendor keeps us safe here, by the blessing of our Prince. I am now his Apostle, tasked to disseminate the teachings of Peryite to our Afflicted._

_So you see, beloved, the spirit of Cul Aloue lives on. I will never blame you for abandoning us that day, so long ago. I only regret that you were not likewise chosen to carry out His blessing._

_Peryite preserve you, and know your children are well._

_Duphraime_

Cosette let the letter fall silently to the ground. Her hands were quivering violently, and try as she might she couldn't bring herself to stop. The tears were falling freely now, and within moments she sensed Kesh backing away slowly as she began bawling her lungs out, dropping to the grass on all fours and wailing like a baby.

_Orchendor_, she thought, cursing the elf with every ragged breath she took. _Orchendor—it all led back to Orchendor_.

Eventually, Cosette stood up, and dried her eyes on her sleeve. Her gaze alighted on the diseased tree before her, and idly, she wondered how it came to be this way. Peryite was the prince of disease, it was true. But Cosette also knew the nature of the gods, and their dependence they had on the mortal races of Tamriel in order to survive. She had disposed of Orchendor, and—she thought with a pang of all the Ionsaithes she'd put to the sword—all his Afflicted. That had reduced Peryite's faithful severely; perhaps how many followers he had determined if the shrine looked to be in disrepair. If that was the case, and if she was correct, the only thing left to do was—

"This one is troubled?"

They were the last words Kesh ever spoke. At the sound of his voice, Cosette whirled around, sword in hand, and beheaded him in one swift stroke. Her teeth were clenched in raw, unrefined rage, and her eyes, still red from crying, flashed with white-hot fire. The last of Peryite's faithful dropped to the ground, and his severed head followed in short order.

But Cosette was not done. Sheathing her sword, she turned to the tree that served as Peryite's shrine. Fire appeared in both her hands, and her body began to shimmer with the same glow as when she'd faced that wispmother.

Bretons were naturally resistant to all manner of magickal attacks, and were capable of siphoning the magicka of incoming spells for a short time, negating them and adding their energy to their own. But the natural abilities of the Ionsaithe clan took the latter one step further: a pureblooded Ionsaithe could generate a ward around their bodies that could absorb not only magickal attacks, but all the natural magicka around them—the latent energy contained within the water, the trees, and all of Mundus—and channel it into their own body.

This natural magicka was the reason why a mage could cast a flesh spell or release a lightning bolt—it acted as a medium for the spell. The Ionsaithes' abilities created a vacuum where that natural magicka once was—magickal attacks could go out, but the only way they could go in was through that absorption ward.

It was the perfect magickal defense combined with an inexhaustible metaphysical battery—all in one neat little package. It was the reason why their clan was called Ionsaithe—_invincible_.

And right now, Cosette was about to use it to deal the deathblow to a Daedra Lord.

She raised her hands, and without further ado, released fireball after fireball at everything within sight. The alchemy table, the cooking pot, Kesh, Duphraime, and the shrine to Peryite all disappeared in her relentless salvo of fire. Dead flesh popped and sizzled, and wood and grass alike burned like kindling as the explosions rocked the hillside, drowning out her war cries.

This continued on for a full minute, although to Cosette it only felt like a matter of seconds—and yet she felt so tired now it might well have been for hours on end. Yet as she looked around her, surveying the carnage, resting her satisfied eyes on the smoking hulk of a stump that used to be Peryite's shrine, a new feeling took hold of her—one that she had not felt in years.

It was a feeling of anticipation—of looking forward to things to come.

_You cannot hide behind your family name forever ..._

_I have no family now,_ Cosette thought grimly. _I destroyed my own fortress, my only hope for the future of my clan._

_There's no point in hiding anymore._

Cosette left the desecrated shrine behind then, and set off on her way down the hillside. She never visited that part of the Reach again in her lifetime—nor did she have any wish to. She had better things on her mind right now.

It was time to fulfill her duty.

* * *

_Bruca's Leap Redoubt_

The camp was small, a mere outpost in comparison with the larger redoubts that dotted the Reach. But like all the others, it still served its purpose; it was only one of many gears in the Forsworn's crude but brutal war machine.

_The Forsworn number higher than the blades of grass. Kill one, and three more stand in their place._

There were only two guards outside the entrance to the cave. Neither of them saw Cosette's firebolts until they blew up in their faces, charring and melting them into grotesque imitations of a human head.

_The wind may howl at its highest, but the mountains will not yield—and the fire will only grow stronger._

_I am a Culler. I tend the fire that will burn the Reach._

The first guard was already dead, but the other was still alive, her eyes and mouth fused shut by the heat of the fire. She swung blindly with her dual swords, and her muffled screams were mixed with fury and pain. Cosette put her out of her misery in passing, drawing and quartering her in a matter of seconds as she continued on her way.

_I am Ionsaithe. I want to be invincible—even if I don't _wish_ to be._

A taller person would have had trouble navigating the narrow passageway that led to Bruca's Leap. It was a crack in the rock, half as wide as she was tall. But the Bretons were just as suited for magic as they were for infiltration. Their physique was what made the Forsworn so dangerous—they were biologically perfect guerrilla fighters.

_No … I _am_ invincible. But I will _not_ be the last one standing._

There were three Forsworn in the cave. One of them was already dead, Cosette could see, and laid out on a wooden table. The one standing over him was a briarheart—the most wonderful and terrible creation of the hedge-magic employed by the Forsworn. Neither living nor dead, but a force of destruction—a tornado of power and vengeance.

The irony did not escape her.

_I swore an oath that my blood would stain the land …_

The third Forsworn had already noticed her enter the cave, and brandished a sword not unlike her own in one hand and a rough stone axe in the other. She charged at Cosette, but the Breton had studied the attack patterns of the Forsworn inside and out, down to the angle of her enemy's arm.

Cosette, therefore, sidestepped the initial strike without any trouble, and disarmed the Forsworn by opening a gash in her right arm from wrist to shoulder. She instinctively screamed in pain, and Cosette used the opportunity to stick her free hand over the Forsworn's mouth—and bathed her esophagus in red-hot flames, killing her instantly.

_… that the _false_ blood might one day fill the Reach to its length and breadth._

The briarheart readied an ebony war axe, and the cave exploded in light and sound as he blasted a thunderbolt at Cosette. Cosette ducked behind a tree, and the lightning blasted a stack of barrels to smithereens.

Quickly, before he could charge another spell, Cosette picked up one of the swords of the Forsworn she'd just killed, and hurled it at the briarheart, where the crude weapon lodged itself in his throat. As he staggered back, Cosette lunged forward, reaching out with her hand into the crudely carved recess into his chest, where his namesake was embedded—held in place with nothing but leather straps.

_That is the duty of all Reachmen._

With a mighty kick, she sent the undead warrior's body toppling over the railing, plucking his only link to life out of his chest. The briar heart was slippery in her hands, and its reddish, spiny edges still dripped with blood and viscera, but she didn't care.

She hefted the grisly object in her hand, and _squeezed_. Dark green juice ran in rivulets down her arm, and a sour smell pervaded the air of the cave as the heart was destroyed. The briarheart thrashed about in his death throes for a few moments longer, and was finally still.

Only then did the façade break, only then did the haze around her eyes fade—if only a little—as the cold reality of the situation began to take root.

_The duty of all Cullers._

Spellbreaker was hers, if only for the next few days—but thanks to her, the name Ionsaithe was little more than a memory now; that her mother and father were still alive out there somewhere did little to comfort her. And yet, Orchendor and his master were no more; Peryite's only known shrine and worshippers in Skyrim had been destroyed, although if he was half the Daedric Prince that Cosette had him for, Peryite would be spending the time he could have manifested on Tamriel instead torturing the Bosmer for the atrocities he'd committed against her clan.

For now, her anger was sated.

Cosette retrieved the sword she'd thrown at the briarheart, pulling it out of his windpipe with a loud squelching noise, and hooked it onto her belt. She looked around the cave, paying only the slightest bit of attention to the dead Forsworn as she made her way outside, to Whiterun and hopefully to Vinye and Malys. The Reachmen had fought well, she admitted—but not well enough. If they were to fulfill their duty, they would have to be stronger than this.

And she would keep becoming stronger—becoming _invincible_—so that they would do the same.

_What I do … I do for my family._

_For the Forsworn._

* * *

_Next chapter: Vinye's history with the Thalmor goes deeper than she's let on. Meanwhile, the Altmer's foray into Raldbthar has some earthshaking consequences.  
_

* * *

**A/N: WOW OKAY that was a lot longer than I thought it would turn out. And Bthardamz is a really big place, so I always knew this was going to be a doozy. But ****_still_**** …**

**Thankfully, these next couple chapters should be a few thousand words shorter, and therefore a little more flowing and coherent, I hope. However, they also might be a while coming; I'll be on holiday a couple weeks from now, and I'm not too sure when I'll have time to write during that time. Fret not, though: I should have at least one chapter done by the last week of July.**

**Lastly, I know I try not to actively seek out attention, but I feel that may have to change. I always want to be a better writer, and with this chapter and the next few I've got lined up, I could use that R&R more than ever to help improve my skills.**

**Thanks for reading! - K**


	8. VII

VII

_Lake Yorgrim_

If there was one thing Vinye hated as much as a lie being disguised as truth, it was being surprised.

This was for a number of reasons, but the most prominent among them was that she liked to be prepared for absolutely everything. It came with the territory of having both a fondness for literature—and an eidetic memory to retain it all. Of course, both had their own shortcomings, but Vinye had decided long ago that the price to pay was well worth it. She'd never paid much heed to showing an interest in social gatherings, and in her case, being able to remember every single manuscript she'd read, and almost every detail of her life from birth—whether she wanted to or not—made her more equipped than most people when preparing to delve into someplace that had heretofore been largely unexplored.

But all the foreknowledge on Mundus could not have prepared her for what had happened in that infernal iceberg—the personages she had spoken with, or the quest with which she had been reluctantly saddled:

_"What do you want?" Her heart was still thundering in her chest from the sight, and she felt a rising fear as the glutinous many-eye focused its attention on her._

**_"I have been watching you since your conception, mortal. Three times now, you have borne witness to the power of the dragons—and you have also seen the power of the Dragonborn … as I once did."_**_ The voice came from every direction, and spoke in every tone; some times it would be a booming roar that echoed off the ice, other times it would be an intimate whisper in her ear, as if to a lover._

_"What do you know of the Dragonborn?"_

**_"What I know of all things, mortal. I. Know. _****Everything****_."_**_ Something in the entity's boasting told Vinye it was not joking._

**_"And that, mortal, is why you have caught my … eyes,"_**_ it said, chuckling darkly at its own wordplay. __**"There are many things you wish to know—even if you do not know the lust with which you pursue them."**_

_Vinye tilted her head. "The lockbox."_

**_"Yes … "_**_ The voice was knowing, yet longing as well. __**"Septimus has proved a useful tool thus far, but he knows not how little time he has left to be so. For too long have I waited for another to take up the burden he no longer can, and you have been … **_**molded ****_… into something most exemplary."_**

_She did not like the way the entity emphasized that one word._

**_"You will open this infernal lockbox,"_**_ it said. It was equally a command as it was words of encouragement. __**"And the truth you have been seeking will be yours … and yours alone."**_

_Vinye frowned. "Truth? … Are you talking about the Dwemer?"_

_The entity chuckled again. __**"Hm. I know what you seek … **_**Vinye****_—even if you yourself do not. And it is something far more significant than the mystery that pervades their … _****disappearance****_."_**

_And with that, the mass of eyes and tentacles had retreated into the crevice, leaving no sign that they were there …_

Vinye shuddered as she recalled the experience; so embedded was it in her mind that even her highly capable memory was unable to remember the details of her return trip to Windhelm. She had remembered asking Gort about a place called Raldbthar, and the ferryman had vaguely pointed her westward, in the direction of the Pale. Other than that, everything had been a total blur—perhaps that was the general effect of having a dialogue with a Daedric Prince, never mind one who had appeared literally out of nowhere.

At any rate, Vinye had thus found herself here, trudging her way south over the frozen edge of Lake Yorgrim. Night had fallen, and the snow was beginning to fall faster. The Altmer fervently hoped that Gort had pointed her in the right direction—she wasn't keen on freezing to death out here for nothing.

Her spirits leapt when she saw a small Dwemer tower in the distance, and she picked up her pace only a little. Closer inspection revealed two levers beyond the gate—one of them next to the gate, and the other in the middle of the floor. Multiple toothed gears surrounding it informed Vinye this must be a lift, much like in Rkund. However, she knew she wouldn't be able to reach it; the gate was locked from the inside. Lockpicks wouldn't help, either—if there was a keyhole, it was on the inside.

But all was not lost. Looking past the lift, Vinye could see a few flights of stairs leading further south. The snow made it hard to tell, but she couldn't think of any reason why those stairs wouldn't be of Dwemer design. Her spirits thus renewed, she ascended them three at a time.

After about a minute of climbing this endless staircase, a thoroughly winded Vinye finally saw the entrance to Raldbthar waiting for her. She reached in her backpack, and pulled out a bright green bottle. _Thank the Eight for stamina potions_, she thought as she drank its contents, feeling the welcome taste of crushed honeycomb and essence of histcarp trickling down her throat—

—when the bottle suddenly shattered in her hands.

Vinye leapt back with a cry, and her fingers instinctively sparked with magicka. She only spared one glance at the remains of the bottle—enough time to notice the still-trembling arrow buried among the shards—and turned back to see several bandits barring her way into the ruin. Two of them were notching more arrows.

The Altmer was just barely able to dodge one of them—ducking into the snow and rolling to escape the salvo. She fired a lightning bolt frantically, aiming at nowhere in particular. The missile struck the golden doors, but Vinye had overcharged the bolt unintentionally in her panic; a small amount ricocheted off the door and into one of the archers. It didn't kill her, but it was enough to make her drop her bow. A second bolt from Vinye finished the job.

By now, the Altmer had dimly recognized a change in her physical and mental states, and she knew enough about the mortal body to recognize the characteristics of a "fight-or-flight" response: a change in the rhythm of her heart and lungs, and a change in her vision as well. Even though it was nighttime, she could see as though the sun was still shining, and she could feel her heart thrashing against her ribcage even through her thick coat.

The world around her had shrunk once more. As in her near-fatal climb to Rkund, everything around her retreated into pitch-black darkness—except for a slice of snow-covered hillside, and the two remaining bandits between her and Raldbthar.

The remaining archer fired another arrow. Vinye saw the arrow coming, and felt herself slowly moving out of the way to dodge it, as though she were wading through the swamps of Hjaalmarch. But she wasn't fast enough; the arrow just _grazed_ her on the shoulder—nothing too serious, but enough to draw blood.

She used one hand to apply healing magic to her shoulder wound, and the other to fire off another lightning bolt. This one was overcharged deliberately—and she felt her heart rise in relief as the bolt flash-burned the outlaw through his heart, bounced off his corpse to the other bandit—and her heart promptly sank again as the third bandit threw up a ward, nullifying the errant missile completely.

_He's a mage, too?!_

The bandit grinned lopsidedly, and cast a stream of sparks at Vinye with both hands. She had just enough time to erect a hasty ward, and initially she was successful—the sparks flowed over the magickal shield, seeking their target but finding none. But the ward was not perfect—Vinye could feel her arm numbing as the aftereffects of the electricity broke through the ward at the same time as her magickal reserves drained.

Quickly, Vinye thought back to her days at the Mage's Guild on Alinor: one morning, there had been a representative of the Aldmeri Dominion present in the lecture hall, and together, she and the Archmagus had performed a demonstration on applied magical skills on the battlefield.

_When you cast a ward_, the Archmagus had said in the middle of the demonstration, _you push the magicka out with your hand, and thus pushing magickal attacks away from you as well. But such a means of defense, while certainly most effective, has its drawbacks—chief among them being the amount of magicka necessary to maintain them._

_Now,_ he had said, as he proceeded to cast one thunderbolt after another at the Justiciar,_ one of the most fundamental rules of this world, not just in magic, is that every action has an equal and opposite reaction—give and take. Naturally, we as mages seek to find that unique situation where everything is given and taken in equal measure. Total balance: pushing, pulling, all at the same time—and this, students, is what our honorable Justiciar has presented to you here. While pushing my attacks away—watch the edges of her ward, watch how the construct seems to distort and swirl towards the middle—she has simultaneously pulled it back in, focusing it back towards the middle, the source—and thus add the magicka I spent attacking her to her own previously depleted reserves._

He had then laid a crate of glowing, foul-smelling eggs, each the size of a fist, before the class. _You will pair off, and practice your wards together. Each of you will take one egg, and hold it between you while simultaneously casting a ward in that same hand. I warn you_, he had said with a slight smirk,_ this will likely be messy._

_Remember. Push and pull._

_Push and pull …_

By the time Vinye had figured it out, she'd been covered nearly head-to-toe in the remains of countless smelly eggs. She smiled wistfully for only a moment as the memory pervaded her mind, and then curled her fingers only slightly.

The ward responded; the edges flared for only a moment, and then began to spiral inward like water circling a drain, slowly but surely. The sparks, caught up in the magickal "current", went with the flow towards the center, but Vinye wasn't paying attention—all she noticed was one of those luminescent eggs in her mind, being pressed against her by an invisible hand, both doing their damnedest not to get splattered—

Eventually, Vinye felt a tingling in her once-numb arm as the electricity flowed through her. The bandit—perhaps he'd studied enough magickal theory to know what was going on—had stopped his onslaught at that point, and was looking at Vinye slack-jawed.

_Too late._

It was Vinye's turn to grin now. "Give and take," she said simply, and fired a bolt point-blank down the thug's mouth. His skull expanded for only a moment, and then blood began leaking out of his mouth and ears. His eyes exploded into paste with the surge of energy, and blood began leaking out there, too. One last bolt from Vinye sent him tumbling into the snow, and the dying bandit left a broad swath of red in his wake as he rolled down the hill.

Vinye exhaled, allowing herself some time to rest and replenish her strength. Once she felt sufficiently charged—and once she'd willed her heart back to its normal pace—she swung open the door to Raldbthar and slipped inside.

* * *

As soon as she entered the ruins, Vinye could tell there were more bandits about—they'd clearly made themselves at home here. Barring her way were two jets of flaming gas, and she noted amusingly how they'd been adapted to put some meat on a spit, prop it up a distance away from the nozzles, and let it roast from there. She felt her stomach growl instinctively, and she plucked a particularly large salmon off the spit, and wrapped it in her pack for later.

A flurry of movement caught her eye; she whirled to the left, just in time to see a bandit rising from his bedroll to confront this new intruder. He pulled out a pale bronze dagger shaped like a feather—elven, she thought apropos of nothing.

"Now ain't this a surprise," the bandit sneered at Vinye sarcastically—and then he charged.

Vinye sidestepped him effortlessly—whoever trained this bandit was no soldier; even a mudcrab could have read his movements and acted accordingly. She didn't even need to look his way to electrocute him with a lightning bolt.

She stepped up to his carcass, reaching out to pry the elven dagger from his fingers, and then something completely unexpected happened: a mechanical whirring noise came from inside her pack—and then a series of numerous, snakelike cords burst from within and buried themselves into the bandit's body.

Confounded, Vinye tried pulling herself away, but to no avail—only when the tendrils retracted from their target with a faint slurping noise did she finally stumble backwards, shock painted all over her face.

_What in the name of Oblivion?!_ Vinye quickly emptied her pack; her potions, drawstring purse, and various ingredients were scattered pell-mell over the stone floor. Then her fingers ran across something metal, and the Altmer pulled out a jumbled collection of metal pipes. A faint sloshing noise could be heard within.

It took her awhile before she remembered Septimus had given this to her early that morning. What was it he had said? "_Seek you thus your wind-swept children, and bid these tubules partake of their life-drink_."

_Wind-swept children …_ Vinye yanked off the bandit's cured leather helm, and beheld two ears with chestnut-brown tips. _A Bosmer_, she realized.

_Is that what I have to do? Collect the blood of elves?_

But just as her heart had risen upon this apparent breakthrough, it sank once more at the enormity of such a task. _I could be at this for years!_

There were definitely plenty of elves inhabiting Skyrim, she knew, but they were hardly all that spread out, either. The Bosmer had been easy enough, albeit a stroke of luck—a _very_ lucky one, Vinye thought; in addition to that elven dagger, he'd been carrying a fully stocked case of lockpicks with him, and those had already come in useful in picking her way through several chests and a gate.

She continued refreshing her memory as she continued delving into Raldbthar, disposing of its population of bandits along the way. Dunmer were plentiful in Windhelm and Riften—besides which … _no. No. Absolutely not_, Vinye thought, as a vision of Malys swam in her head—not unless she had absolutely no choice. Orsimer, however—

A screech of metal on stone interrupted her train of thought as she approached an inclined hallway; a spinning thresher blade burst out of a groove in the ramp and blocked her path. Vinye took stock of her surroundings; there was no way around—the hallway was too thin to afford any safe refuge from the revolving blades—and no lever she could see to deactivate the trap. Still, there had to be some way through—

Vinye blinked, and subconsciously charged a lightning bolt. She prepared to run as she did so—she was about to do something incredibly stupid and dangerous, and almost certainly at the expense of her life.

Remembering her experience with the dwarven wasp automatons in Rkund, she fired at the base of the rotor, and was immediately rewarded by a shriek in the mechanism. The blade separated from its track, and Vinye hastily ducked out of the way, though not quickly enough; the destroyed trap opened a sizable gash in her arm as it spun out of control and deep into the stone hallway.

Resealing her wound with some restoration magic, Vinye resumed her journey and her recollection. _Where was I?_

Orsimer, yes—the Orcs preferred to keep to themselves, and inhabited a few strongholds spread throughout Skyrim. They didn't like outsiders, Vinye remembered from some tales Urag had told her; the master of the Arcaneum had also hinted that he was quite _nice_ for an Orc. And if that was the case, she wasn't keen on wanting to seek them out.

She navigated through a series of pistons and firetraps, no doubt designed to push any unwary adventurers into a fiery death. And if they were savvy enough, the dwarven sphere and its retinue of spiders that patrolled the area were surely more than enough to finish the job—but _surely_ they didn't account for a mage like Vinye.

She aimed for the sphere first—a lightning bolt to the crossbow fixed to the automaton's left arm summarily disarmed it. A second and third bolt was directed at the rolling wheels that served as their feet; each one blasted at the hub of a wheel, and the unbalanced sphere fell flat on its metal face. Vinye overcharged her last bolt, electrocuting both spiders before they had a chance to leap for her, and she was showered in metal parts. A little more healing magic soothed the bruises left behind, and she continued on.

Lastly, there were the Altmer. Vinye wasn't all that willing to use herself as a test subject to that end—surely if that was true, this strange little machine of Septimus' would have drained her of every drop already, as it had that unfortunate wood elf. But the fact remained that very few Altmer remained in Skyrim—and even then, the chances were that they were part of the Thalmor, who had withdrawn most of their forces after the success of the Stormcloak Rebellion, leaving only a small occupation within their embassy near Solitude.

_There's got to be more to it than this_, Vinye thought in frustration. _I'm missing something here …_

_Think, Vinye, think … what else did Septimus say?_

The aged wizard's croak echoed through her mind once more as her eidetic memory replayed that encounter in the iceberg. _The progeny of the First Folk is scattered to the winds_, he had said. _Seek you out the forest and the snow; sift you through the dung and the ash._

It was a riddle, Vinye realized with a gasp. They were _elves_.

"Ash" had to be the Dunmer—the Red Year had made that more evident than ever, she thought wryly. "Forest" was wood—the Bosmer—and Vinye was already set on that front. "Dung" … _dung, what would be dung_, she thought—

Of course—the Orsimer! She recalled a passage from a short book she'd read on the ancient Aldmer, on how the Daedra Boethiah had eaten his rival Trinimac. His remains were excreted in front of Trinimac's followers, and they became Malacath, patron of the Orcs. The Aldmer still loyal to Trinimac were changed into the Orcs, she recalled, and rubbed the remains of Malacath on their skin as a sign of their continued devotion.

That just left one more … "snow"—and as soon as she thought the word, Vinye felt a deep pit open up in her stomach, and felt a cold sweat falling down her back.

_Falmer_.

Vinye had heard plenty about the snow elves. She knew of how they had risen up against the ancient Atmorans, the progenitors of the Nords, and razed the ancient city of Saarthal in the Merethic Era. She knew of how the Atmorans had paid them back in kind, driving them underground, and—it was thought—to extinction. But there had been whispers in Skyrim of late; tales of white monsters in the night, of piles of blood and gore—and of people who always seemed to just … _vanish_, never to be heard from again.

Now, as one more of Septimus' cryptic lines wormed its way into Vinye's mind, she suspected these stories might actually be true.

_Begin you hence at Raldbthar … the first and second inside the third …_

The _first_ elf had been a Bosmer. The _second_ … Vinye gulped as she approached the lever at her feet.

In less than a minute, the nature of her quest had changed significantly. Before, it had only been a matter of whether she'd make it to Whiterun in time to catch up with Malys and Cosette. Now, the question seemed to not be when Vinye would make it _there_—but _if_ she would make it out of _here_ alive.

She laughed dully. _I could use a little bit of J'zargo's bravado right now_, she thought.

Steeling her nerves as best she could, she nudged the lever, and the lift sank into the bowels of Raldbthar.

* * *

The first thing she noticed when she forced open the door exiting out of the lift was the smell—musty and cloying. And if it was anything else, Vinye might have been sick all over the floor. But the smell instantly brought back memories of that one lesson in Alinor—of the same eggs she'd been coated in after hours and hours of practice.

Further down the hallway, Vinye could see the source of that stench littering the floor: a glowing, slightly pulsing sac. A thresher blade had evidently tried to remove this infestation, but the eggs were either so tough or so numerous that the blade was permanently stuck in the mass. She gave the scene a wide berth anyway—no sense in taking chances with either of these things.

She pulled open another door, and was greeted with a massive cavern. The lamps high above were not burning, and the entire chamber was instead illuminated by the natural, bluish-green light of yet more of the wriggling egg sacs.

Scurrying among these natural towers like vermin were the Falmer—or, Vinye corrected, whatever the Falmer had become. Their snow-white skin had become a wrinkled, sickly gray, and was stretched taut over their bald, eyeless heads. Two large slits for nostrils ran from forehead to mouth, which was filled with much more teeth than a normal mouth ought to have, and each one of them was as sharp as a razor, Vinye suspected.

One of the Falmer was crouched over the remains of what looked to be an ill-fated pack of bandits. He held a crude-looking dagger in his bony, clawed fingers, and was idly skinning one of the corpses. Vinye saw ragged piles of cured leather and reddish lumps of meat on a makeshift tanning rack nearby, and again fought the urge to vomit.

She could see more Falmer as she looked around the chamber; all of them were tending to various duties. Some were crouched over crude campfires in heavy-looking tents; others were plucking mushrooms from a vast patch of dirt, and a pair even appeared to be eating a meal in the form of a dead skeever, talking between bites in a language of incomprehensible growls and clicks. None of them appeared to have noticed her, which puzzled her briefly until she remembered that the Falmer were blind—they _couldn't_ see her at all.

Vinye felt a brief upsurge of scholar's opportunity at the sight. Perhaps if the circumstances were different, she could have taken this moment to study them; she regretted not having any paper in her pack for taking notes. An entire culture—if an absolutely _savage_ one—had developed in the wake of the Dwemer's disappearance, right under Skyrim's collective nose, and she wondered if she might be the only living person in the province right now to know that the Falmer were not only surviving—but _thriving_.

_If only the Synod Council could see me now_, Vinye thought with savage pleasure. She had studied there, once, but had tired of the endless political undercutting after only a month. The College of Whispers hadn't offered much more comfort for her—she didn't last that long there _either_, after experiencing nothing but one lie over another being accepted as fact, and being silenced at every turn by pompous, self-proclaimed rivals for all her efforts.

For now, though, she decided to continue on with her journey. The Falmer could wait—another, more mysterious race awaited her, and Vinye's thoughts of the Synod and the College of Whispers had steeled her resolve more than any dose of J'zargo's bravery.

_The mystery of the Dwemer will be_ mine_ to uncover_, she thought resolutely.

She stepped into the cavern, not daring to make a sound—partly out of respect for the rudimentary culture around her, but mostly for her own safety. The Falmer had been living underground for so long, their sight had deteriorated to nothing—but Vinye had seen from a cursory glance just how large their ears and noses were, and she suspected that they didn't _need_ to see her. They could easily hear her just fine, and likely smell her as well, and so she had to be extremely careful.

An idea came to her at that moment—and were it not for her prior experience with that one lesson in Alinor, she would have immediately cast it aside as the most ludicrous one she'd ever had. But even as she pondered the outlandishness of it all, she knew there was no other way she'd be able to make it through.

And so, with a look of disgust on her face, she silently crossed over to one of the egg sacs, one that was devoid of any Falmer lurking nearby. Bracing herself, she quickly sliced open the sac with her newly acquired elven dagger, watching the slimy eggs spill out of the tear for only a moment before plunging her free arm into the sac, all the way up to her shoulder. She felt the warm, viscous substance cling to her arm for a few seconds before she pulled it out, and then it was the other arm's turn to soak inside the slime.

After that, Vinye dipped her boots inside—and her legs, for good measure—before stripping to her underclothes and coating her robes and effects in the muck. Last was, reluctantly, her face and hair—she still had enough vanity to worry about any potential damage to her roots before liberally applying the goop over every square inch of her head. The smell was almost overpowering, but Vinye hoped that would work in her favor; now, she could walk among the Falmer for as long as she wanted—all they would smell was a burst egg sac, and with any luck, there was enough dried slime covering her boots to muffle her footsteps as well.

Once she was sure her impromptu "makeover" was complete, she continued on her way.

She passed more Falmer going about their business as she slowly, silently ascended to the upper levels of the cavern. There were several tents located here; one was larger than the others, and under it stood a Falmer that must have been the chieftain of this particular "tribe." A full head taller than the others, he wore the head and jaws of some large insect over his head, and his body was encased in spiky, slippery-looking armor. An axe in the shape of a crablike claw hung at his side. The smell coming off him was appalling—even worse than the secretions Vinye had coated her clothes in, and that was saying something.

For only a moment, the two elves had stared each other eye to nonexistent eye, and the effect had been more than a little disquieting. Then he had turned away, and Vinye was left to stare back at him, heart thundering so loudly that it was a wonder the Falmer didn't hear _that_.

Only many hours later, when she left the cavern on tiptoe and barred the door behind her, did Vinye exhale in relief. She relaxed, and turned around to continue her journey—and ran slap bang into a Falmer.

The scream she let out was more than enough to rouse all of Raldbthar.

Both Vinye and the Falmer leapt back in comical near-unison, each clearly as surprised as the other. Vinye recovered a split second before the snow elf, however, and that split second saved her life. Before the Falmer could unsheathe his cruel-looking sword, Vinye had burned right through his chest with a lightning bolt, and the creature toppled to the floor with a choking gasp. As if they sensed the creature's death, the tubules strained inside Vinye's pack again, ripping through the seams and shooting straight for the Falmer's body of their own accord. They embedded themselves inside the flesh, and proceeded to extract his blood.

As the pipes finally retreated back into her pack, Vinye knew that she had to rush onward—if the Falmer didn't hear her screaming before, they would certainly have heard her lightning bolts. They knew someone was here now, and all the glowing eggs in the world wouldn't change that. They were on high alert now, and so she had to be as well.

Two more Falmer appeared before she had a chance to catch her breath. It seemed they still knew how to use magic; one of them held a flaming purple sword in her hand—a bound weapon, Vinye remembered, not unlike those used by soldiers in the Dominion—and was covered in swirling clouds of ice shards. A cascade of sparks erupted from the Altmer's hands, and the Falmer screeched in her death throes as her wizened form sizzled and popped under the onslaught before she could get any closer.

The other Falmer held a crude bow in his hands, though, and was firing one arrow after another—an astonishing feat, Vinye thought, considering they were blind. Even more astonishing was that they weren't all that far off the mark, either. But superhuman senses couldn't excuse the fact that these arrows were just as crude as the bow they were being released from; the first few broke apart when they hit the carved corridor behind her.

Acting on impulse, and not having enough time to form a ward, Vinye grabbed the fallen snow elf's body by the scruff of the neck, and held it in front of her like a shield. She heard several more arrows thud into the carcass, and she pushed forward slowly with grim satisfaction, waiting for her strength to replenish so she could get back on the offensive.

The Falmer seemed to get wise to Vinye's strategy, though; his next arrow sailed into his dead companion's neck—but the arrow broke through on the other side with enough force to bury itself a good three inches into Vinye's palm. The Altmer yowled in pain, and tried to let go, but to no avail, the barbs had sunk too far into her flesh.

Eventually, though, the shoddy arrow snapped in two, and the Falmer's body finally crumpled to the ground, full of arrows. The archer followed not long after; one lightning bolt from Vinye blew his bow apart, and another blew his shriveled brains all over the corridor.

Vinye pulled out the arrow, gnashing her teeth all the while. The crude missile felt organic, like it had been created from the bones and innards of some unknown animal. The forked tip dripped with a thick black liquid.

_Poison_.

Even as she mouthed the word, Vinye felt her vision beginning to go. The halls of Raldbthar swam before her eyes, distorting into shapes she could not recognize. Her arms and legs felt like they were made of pastry, and within a few steps they were incapable of supporting her frame. She tried to cast a healing spell, but found that she could not lift her arms at all.

_I have to … get … away …_

She stumbled into a small alcove, feeling cold sweat break out all over her body, and she immediately began to shiver. She tucked herself in as far as her slender Altmer body would allow, and curled into a ball as darkness washed over her …

* * *

_" … Vinye? Come here, Vinye!"_

_A dulcet, stately voice echoed in the chamber. From her vantage point, she could see the glass-like spires of Firsthold gleaming in the setting sun, rising a thousand feet tall or more into the sky. Against the golden waters of the Abacean, the panorama looked positively alien._

_Her tiny footsteps echoed on the mirror-polished stone floor as she obediently ran over to the blonde-haired woman in navy blue robes that just entered. They embraced in a warm but all-too-brief hug._

_"It's time for your lessons, dearest," the woman said perfunctorily after smoothing her hair. "And speaking of lessons, what did I tell you about running in the hallways?"_

_The little girl let the question hang deliberately before answering. "'S not ladylike," she said, pouting slightly as her mother led her out of the room._

_"Proper young ladies do not scamper around like the beast-folk, dear," said the woman, nodding to emphasize her point. "You are an Altmer, and you must learn to carry yourself as such … "_

_…_

_… "Spell combination," said the Archmagus in the main assembly hall of Firsthold's Mages' Guild, clapping his gnarled hands together as if it was self-explanatory. He indicated the Justiciar next to him, pointing out the ethereal sword in his hand that burned purple and sparked with vivid blue energy._

_"Thus far, we have been teaching by the book, as it were," he continued with his lecture. "But there are no books in the battlefield. The enemy will not stop to lecture you as I am now. And yet, the enemy abides by the book as well. So we must adapt. We must be more creative, unexpected, in order to achieve victory."_

_The young elf, barely ten years old, took notes—already seeing ideas for potential combinations laid out before her._

_"We have one hour left to us in our lesson. You will have until then to develop, perfect, and demonstrate your own unique spell," said the Archmagus. "Your time starts now … "_

_…_

_" … And so you see our position, Madam Emissary," said the soldier at their door. She listened only half-heartedly, concentrating more on her dinner. "We believe your presence there would be most beneficial for the Dominion."_

_The woman nodded. "I'll see what I can do. The High Chancellor will have my decision by tomorrow morning." The two elves saluted each other, and the woman returned to the table._

_"So," said the justiciar across from the girl, "how are your lessons progressing, Vinye?"_

_She waited to swallow her bite of jazbay crostata before answering, she was a growing young lady, after all, and she was expected to behave in such a manner. "The Archmagus taught us how to combine spellwork today," she said dutifully. "It was a little strange at first—I never read anything about it, so I thought it couldn't be done, or that I'd have to be a really powerful wizard to learn it."_

_"And the Archmagus told me you rose to the challenge very well, dear," beamed her mother. The girl looked at her in surprise at this bit of information. "Why don't you tell Papa the spell you made?"_

_"It's just a lightning ward," the girl shrugged. "The Archmagus says we have to outsmart our enemies, and I thought if our enemies knew we used a lot of magic, then they'd use something to stop us from using magic, like lightning. So I made a ward to protect against lightning better."_

_The justiciar arched his pointed golden eyebrows. "Show me," he said encouragingly._

_"Okay." She rose from her seat, and spread out her arms._

_Silver flames erupted from her left hand, and spread out around her in a circular shield. Her right hand sparked with electricity, and the sparks wove into her ward, tinting it a faint purplish-blue._

_She squeaked as the justiciar suddenly sent a tiny bolt of lightning at her. The worst it would have done was left her arm numb for a few hours, but she panicked all the same. The bolt bounced off the ward, shattering a bottle of spiced alto wine, and the ward destabilized within seconds._

_"Orinwe!" The woman looked at her husband with a mixture of shock and grudging admiration. "That is most unbecoming for an elf of your position! Think of the example you are setting for our daughter!"_

_Orinwe appeared to consider this. "I'm _thinking_ she'll make for a fine Justiciar herself one day," he said with a roguish grin. His wife tried to fight it down, but eventually she couldn't resist a small chuckle._

_"The Archmagus has also informed me how far you've come in your overall studies, Vinye," she continued, clearing her throat delicately. "I think you've earned yourself some time away from the Isle, don't you think?"_

_The girl's face brightened, and she let out a gasp. "Can we go to Elsweyr?" she said excitedly. "I want to see their acrobats again!"_

_"Vinye, dear," her mother simpered, "you've been to Elsweyr three times this last year, and twice in a row to Corinthe. Don't you want to explore more of the Dominion's territories?"_

_Her face fell at the words, and her mother appeared to take notice. "Oh, don't give me that look, Vinye," she said kindly. "I have just the place in mind … "_

_…_

_… She gaped at the immense trees spread out before her. Even the towers of Firsthold weren't half as tall as these monstrous creations of nature. Everything was a mixture of lush greens and muted browns, and colors she'd never dreamed possible were scattered here and there in the form of exotic flowers and birds._

_Forgoing any semblance of her ladylike reserve and composure, she finally managed to close her jaw, and she spoke in an awed whisper, "Valenwood is _amazing_."_

_Her father chuckled. "I did tell you," he said knowingly as they stepped off the boat and onto the land of the wood elves …_

_…_

_… She picked at the meat suspiciously, as though worried it would come to life and bite her fingers off._

_"Vinye, dearest, is something wrong with your food?" Her father had finished the last of his salmon, and was now looking at her with a concerned look on his face. They had been staying in Falinesti for two days now, and Orinwe hadn't seen his daughter eat anything in that time._

_"I don't trust it," Vinye said skeptically. "What if it's one of them? The elves eat each other here; it's disgusting!"_

_Orinwe cleared his throat. "Now, Vinye, just because the Bosmer have a religious obligation to do such a thing, does not mean they do it all the time. Just as some elves choose to worship Talos, distasteful as the practice may be, they are a very select few. And do act your age, please; you are fifteen years old! You're almost ready to be the youngest Justiciar that Firsthold's produced in a hundred years!"_

_Vinye groaned under her breath. "I wish Mother were here."_

_"As do I, my dear. But your mother has some very important business to attend to in Alinor."_

_He looked up suddenly, and his face grew tense. "And speaking of business … "_

_Two Justiciars had appeared beside their public table. They, like Orinwe, were dressed in Bosmeri plainclothes. None of them saluted, nor did they speak, but the glint in their eye was more than enough to suffice._

_"Vinye, dear, I'm afraid I'll have to take my leave for the night," he said, turning back in her direction. "Go back to our room, and get back to your studies."_

_"But Father—"_

_"Vinye." Orinwe's sharp bark did not invite argument. She stared at him for a few eternal moments longer, before pushing her untouched plate of food away, and trudging away from the marketplace to their residence …_

_…_

_… She did not get to sleep that night. No matter how she tossed and turned, her eyes simply refused to close. Her father had never raised her voice before at her; why the sudden change in mood?_

_Was it something she had said, something she had done? Or was there something else at work here? Valenwood was Dominion territory, she knew, so Justiciars—even in uniform—were not exactly an uncommon sight. And yet, they seemed to know each other on some level … even though she knew she and her father had arrived alone._

_A small puff of noise in the distance distracted her from her train of thought, like a log popping in a fire. There were shouts in the street below._

_Another puff. Then a third, a fourth, and suddenly they were coming in rapid succession—like a rainstorm beating on the roof._

_The shouting became screaming, and the screaming became louder and louder—_

_And then there was chaos._

_The noise came first—an invisible, roaring wall of a thousand sounds; the BOOMs and BANGs of explosions both near and far, the continued screams of the population outside, and something else, magnified over the pandemonium: a deep voice, bellowing indistinctly over the noise that sounded vaguely familiar to her._

_What is going on?!_

_The lights followed just behind, and suddenly a massive explosion rocked the hollowed-out tree where she had been resting. The floor-to-ceiling window glowed with blinding illumination, and shattered into a thousand pieces. She rose from her bed, and peered through the wreckage._

_For a solid minute, she wondered if the forces of Oblivion itself had descended upon Falinesti. She had heard chilling tales of the Oblivion Crisis, of how the hordes of daedra that had poured through had toppled Crystal-Like-Law—the sacred tower built by the Aldmer of long ago—and slaughtered all who had sought refuge inside._

_But even that could not compare to _this_._

_The earth heaved, and light and sound filled her world. Her senses were being oppressed in every direction—the fires blinded her, the screams and explosions deafened her, and the smoke and stench of burning wood and flesh choked her. Dozens of shadowed forms flitted about the treetops and the trunks. Some of them carried swords, daggers and axes, hacking more of the figures to pieces, while others leapt upon them with open mouths and claws, physically tearing the monsters to shreds and consuming the still-warm remains—_

_The voice boomed out again, and this time she could make out individual words over the din. She listened intently, doing her best to filter out all the background noise—_

_"Purify the land with our fire!" the voice roared, amplified by some arcane magic. "The lives and lands of these beasts are nothing to us. We shall reign supreme!"_

_She felt her breath seize up in her lungs, and felt sweat dripping down her neck. In spite of the hellish scene around her, her skin felt clammy, cold as the grave. She knew that voice. She had heard it for all her life, congratulating her, encouraging her to be better. Tears began streaming down her cheeks, only to be evaporated by the heat and stinging her eyes even more—_

_Please stop, she thought, beginning to convulse uncontrollably. Please stop … please stop … please stop _please stop _**please**__—_

_"__**STOP!**__"_

_No one would ever have hoped to hear her, but she did not care; a desperate, childish fury had latched into her mind with an iron grip, and now she behaved like a rabid animal. Her hands blossomed with magic, more than she had ever produced thus far in her short life; her entire body crackled with transient lightning—_

_She did not remember striking out at the nearest figure to her, or the fleeting relief she felt when she saw it crumble into dust from the force of her lightning attack. She did not remember doing the same thing to the next figure, or the next one—or any after that; all she wanted to do was to make it stop, to make everything peaceful and quiet again—_

_It seemed to take forever before the chaos finally diminished, though the fires still raged all around her, and she finally gained the courage to limp around the devastation. Bleeding bodies, parts of bodies, and piles of ash filled the streets. The swirling embers half-blinded her, and she could make out very little detail, but a faraway part of her noted how many of these bodies seemed to be alarmingly close to her._

_Did _I_ do all this?_

_She wiped her eyes and blinked a few times, clearing all the soot and spots from her vision. It wasn't much, but she could see clearer now._

_When she looked down at the bodies, though, she wished she were blind._

_Dozens of Bosmer were scattered about the streets of Falinesti. Some of them carried flesh wounds from physical weapons, others from teeth and claws, and still others were charred all over with burns from the fires. But the vast majority carried small, concentrated burns all over their bodies, and she recognized them as her own lightning._

_It was the other bodies, though, that left her frightened and shaking like a scared little toddler._

_Once, their armor had been polished to a mirror-sheen, the individual moonstone feathers gleaming green and gold in the sunlight. Their robes and cloaks were normally impeccably pressed and surgically clean. Tonight, however, they were as charred, burned, and shredded as the bodies that wore them._

_Thalmor, she thought. All the Thalmor … all the Bosmer … everyone …_

_I did this. All of it._

_And as she brooded over the magnitude of what she had just done, a new, more horrifying thought came to her._

_Father—!_

_It took much less time to find him than she had been anticipating, but when she did, she wished yet again that the gods would smite her and take her sight, even her life—but even then, the sight of her father lying there, bloodied and mangled, his face forever frozen in that mask of terror, would be burned into her mind for all her years—_

_It was too much. She dropped to her knees, and cinders and ash be damned, she let the tears flow freely, howling in strangled fury, unwilling to accept the truth—_

_The truth._

_She stopped crying then, a strange thought creeping into her mind. Truth. The word had an unfamiliar meaning to her now._

_What is truth?_

_She had come to Valenwood alongside her father, and while she had earned herself a brief respite from her studies at the Mages' Guild, her father had come here for business, he had said._

_But who in Oblivion could call such destruction _business?

_" … They are nothing to us! … We are supreme! … "_

_And then, the final truth of this crime came to her, and tears sprang to her face once more—but this time they were not of sorrow, but of a rage that burned hotter than all the fires around her._

_That was his voice._

_He had done this. Her own father._

_"You'll make for a fine Justiciar one day … "_

_This was what they wanted me to be? They wanted me to kill—to destroy all this—_

_Her eyes blazed with fire and lightning. They lied to me._

_My own father _lied to me!

_Without thinking, she burned a bolt into her father's face, then another, and another—over and over until his face was unrecognizable among all the burn scars. Only then did her anger die down, replaced by an eerie calm, like the silence before a storm._

_Attempting to think more rationally, to calm herself even further, she paced the bloody streets and pondered. I can't go back home anymore, she realized. If they find out—if Mother finds out—they'll kill me. But I can't stay here … I can't go to Elsweyr—I can't go anywhere in the Dominion now. I'm branded for life._

_I have to get out of here._

_Cyrodiil, she realized. Yes … the answer was so easy! She could flee there. The Imperial City was vast, and surely no one would notice an Altmer child among the throngs of people that called the largest metropolis in Tamriel home. Perhaps, if she was lucky, she could continue her studies there—give herself a fresh start, an opportunity to distract her mind from this atrocity—_

_A new identity … a new beginning …_

_She tried her best to heal herself again; her leg didn't feel broken, but it was still sore enough to where she would have to constantly apply her restoration skills to ward off the pain and soreness._

_She had a long road ahead of her …_

* * *

The first sign that she knew she was—incredibly—alive was the coldness of the stone against her temple. A cold sweat—she could not tell whether it was an aftereffect of the poison, a result of the fever dream she'd seen, or if the two were possibly connected with one another—had left her drenched, and the egg-slime she had covered herself in had hardened into a bumpy, off-white resin. The smell was nauseating.

Eventually, Vinye opened her eyes, and everything crashed over her in one big wave—Septimus and the iceberg, Raldbthar, the bandits, the Falmer, all the memories of the past few hours returned to her.

It was a miracle she was still alive, Vinye thought—the Falmer could have come back for her at any time, and imprisoned her, tortured her, or worse. She didn't stop to wonder why—for now, she thanked the gods that they had been watching over her in her expedition.

But the question remained: how long had she been here? Hours? Days? Longer? Vinye was not sure. That was the trouble with Dwarven ruins—you had no idea where to find north or south, or if it was midday or midnight.

There was only way to find out, she knew, and there were two ways to go about it—the Falmer she had bypassed, and however many ruins were still left unexplored. _The danger I know … or the danger I don't_, she thought ruefully. Either way, she knew whatever lay ahead of her was on the lookout for an intruder.

After much deliberation, she elected to push forward—if she was lucky, perhaps there were still some active Dwemer automatons in this ruin, and while they might consider her an intruder too, the case would certainly be the same for the Falmer. _That would certainly make things easier for me_.

Almost immediately, she could tell her hypothesis was correct; three Falmer lay dead in the next chamber, their black blood coating the floor with a sticky film. One had met his end by some kind of thresher trap in the ceiling (she made sure to give the pressure plate a wide berth this time), and the other two had been defeated by a set of automatons. Losses had been heavy for them as well, two spiders lay broken alongside them; only the sphere was still alive, but the heavy weapons of the Falmer had badly damaged it to the point of immobility. It tried to raise its crossbow to snipe Vinye, but the joint was broken, and the Altmer mercifully disabled it with a single lightning bolt.

Vinye continued on in relative peace and quiet; the Dwemer machinery was growing louder and louder with every step she took. It was possible she was nearing the deepest part of the ruins, which filled her with a sense of desperation. Her trek to Raldbthar wouldn't be a complete failure, thanks in part to Septimus' mystifying machine, but nonetheless, she hoped that she would have something to show Malys, Cosette, and Solyn for her efforts.

Suddenly, she stopped in her tracks. A dozen spikes had risen from the floor, and they barred her from going any further. To the right, she noticed four glowing buttons, each suspended on their own pedestal. One of them must activate the gate, she guessed. The other three were just dummies—or traps.

She took a quick scan around the room. Sure enough, she could see several hollow protuberances jutting out at odd angles. Poison darts—or flame jets, she assumed. She twitched her left hand a little, preparing herself to erect a ward at a moment's notice.

Vinye grimaced inwardly—it looked like trial-and-error from here on out. She pushed the one on the far left, and jumped as she heard second set of spikes erupt from the ceiling, closing behind her and trapping her inside. After a moment of panic, she pressed it again, and the gate retreated.

_Strike one_.

The next button she activated did nothing whatsoever—at least, she hoped that was the case. She leapt away from the third almost as soon as she'd pressed it, anticipating the worst—but her efforts paid off as the bars in front of her slid down into their grooves. She sighed in relief, and continued on.

The next chamber was even more immense—and more populated with Falmer—than the first. Clicking noises echoed throughout the chamber, though Vinye could not yet tell what was making them. They were definitely not mechanical, though, and she surmised they belonged to some kind of cave creature, perhaps captured by the Falmer.

She looked off to the right, and saw the leader of this pack though the gates: a male, covered in even thicker armor than the other chieftain, and clutching something in his clawed hand that looked vaguely familiar to her: a metal hammer shaped like a T, about as long as his forearm. Hadn't there been a similar carving featured in the Reli—

Vinye's mouth fell open as she recognized the object. _That's Sunder!_

Questions began buzzing in her mind—how was it that one of Kagrenac's Tools found its way into Skyrim? How did a Falmer manage to get his filthy claws on such a priceless artifact?

She slid open the gate as quietly as she could; the grating wasn't giving her the best look. She needed to look closer, see if the artifact was indeed genuine—

Vinye stopped in her tracks when she saw the gate opposite her—and stared in horror at the two creatures behind it.

The frostbite spiders were a feared menace throughout Skyrim, and she'd actively done her best to go out of their way, but _these_ things were on a completely different level of terrifying. The best she could describe it was a horse-sized arthropod, with two pairs of razor-sharp pincers—one on its ugly, flat head, another on its tail—that dripped with greenish-black venom and red blood from the remains of a meal that she tried not to think about.

As her initial shock and disgust gradually subsided, Vinye began to have a suspicion that these bugs hadn't been captured, but had been reared by the Falmer as livestock—domesticated to form the backbone of their culture. Their chitinous bodies instantly reminded her of the spiky armor and weapons many of them carried, and those heavy tents she'd seen earlier looked to be made out of a similar substance. She made a mental note for future reference: if she survived this ruin, she might publish a paper on this new Falmer culture one day—perhaps even shove it gloatingly under the noses of those blowhards in the Synod.

It then hit Vinye that if the Falmer were indeed raising these bugs and farming them for all they were worth, then they had to be coming from somewhere. Some kind of birthing pen, or … Then she looked behind the bugs, and sure enough, there were even more of those glowing, throbbing sacs filled with Divines only knew _how_ many eggs, and she nearly gagged as she felt a wave of nausea wash over her.

_I covered my whole body in _that?!

The bugs suddenly stopped their clicking and clacking. Vinye, her attention focused on the Falmer who held Sunder, didn't notice their tiny, glowing eyes were looking right at her until it was too late.

When she was fifteen feet away from the chieftain, the horrible insects suddenly emitted a piercing, chittering shriek. Instantly the Falmer snapped to attention, looking around warily as if they could actually see Vinye. The bugs shrieked again, and the high elf felt a lead weight hit her stomach when she saw the Falmer chieftain move in her direction, pulling out Sunder from his leather belt.

_Damn it_.

Vinye began looking for possible escape routes. Going back was not an option; it would funnel the Falmer, but there was also the chance that the other camp had broken through the bar on the door, and she would be trapped between the two. There were several other corridors inside the chamber, but they had all collapsed save one: a raised bridge off to her right above a large pool of water. There was a button alongside it to lower the contraption.

Vinye knew she had no other choice.

And so she bolted.

Several things then happened in rapid succession: the Falmer snarled and lunged forward, swinging Sunder in a downward arc straight for Vinye. It missed by a long shot, Vinye saw from the corner of her eye—but then there was a flash of blue light as Sunder struck the stone floor, followed by a deafening thunderclap.

And suddenly, Vinye was lifted bodily from the floor by an immensely strong _something_, like a dragon had just seized her in its talons. The next thing she knew, she was heading straight for the water. She bounced off the surface once—the sensation was not unlike running headlong into a brick wall—before she sank into the water.

_Okay_, a detached part of her mind thought through the pain. _Definitely the genuine article_.

Stars danced in front of her eyes as she tried to make sense of where she was—where was up, where was down. By the time Vinye had her bearings straight, she was running short of breath, and broke the surface with a gasp just as her vision began to blur.

She gaped at the carnage that greeted her; that one strike from Sunder had changed the layout of the entire hall. The polished stone floor had cracked like flatbread, and rocks the size of the Falmeri tents had been dislodged from the natural ceiling, crushing upwards of a dozen Falmer under their mass. The ceiling above the pool had massive cracks running through it, and Vinye hastily made her way out of the water before they had a chance to crush her as well. The two repulsive insects had been protected from the onslaught, but the gates housing them had not, and so they were free to wander the wreckage and feast on the mangled bodies of their former masters. The Falmer chieftain and a few of his subordinates had also managed to survive.

And to make matters worse, the bridge control had been dislodged, lowering the causeway of its own accord. Behind it, Vinye saw an enormous Dwemer centurion lumbering towards the remaining Falmer, steam billowing from its shoulders like a cloak. More steam hissed from its mouth, and one of the lesser Falmer screamed as the scalding vapor boiled him alive.

As Vinye watched in fascination from a safe distance, the pair of massive bugs joined the fray, their mandibles grappling at the centurion's limbs. Their strength was surprising—one of them managed to rip out the massive hammer that served as its right fist, its venom burning into the resilient golden metal. The centurion wouldn't go down easy, though; it planted one of its armored feet right on the other insect, crushing it into a purplish-black mass of sticky pulp.

The Falmer chief swung Sunder at the centurion, and Vinye braced herself for the inevitable—but the golem used its halberd arm to block his swing. The snow elf went with the movement though—perhaps more by accident than design, and struck the automaton as it wound back to make another punch. Sunder crumpled the golden golem like it was matchwood, and the centurion was blasted into a thousand pieces by whatever arcane magic the artifact had been imbued with, crumpling against the other end of the chamber and exploding into flames.

That left the chief, his subordinate, and that ugly insectoid "pet." _Three against one_, Vinye thought. _Not good odds_.

Falinesti had offered worse.

The monsters charged—all but the chieftain, who held back with his fanged mouth curled in a sneer. Typical—letting his underlings do the dirty work, Vinye thought as she let fly with her lightning.

Both bolts hit the insect—one in its hideous mouth, the other on its underbelly—and with a final, dying shriek, it simply _exploded_, bursting into a thick mush filled with shards of chitin and acidic venom. The other Falmer turned to look at the grisly spectacle—and Vinye promptly burned a clean hole through his hairless head.

The Falmer chieftain snarled at her as his subordinate gurgled and died, and he hefted Sunder in his hand. Vinye tapped into her innate Altmer abilities, and felt a tingling sensation as her body began to glow blue.

Then the Falmer charged, and hurled Sunder aloft, swinging it downward like a thunderbolt. Thinking quickly, Vinye pulled out the Bosmer's elven dagger; there was a gap halfway up the spine of the blade made for catching enemy weapons and parrying them. With both hands, she thrust it at Sunder—

—and the handle of the ancient hammer caught in the gap, trapping the two elves together. The Falmer shrieked as he realized his error, and tried to break free, but Vinye was holding on with all her might. She couldn't use any of her spells, else the hammer might fall—and so would she. They were well and truly deadlocked.

Or so the Falmer thought.

As her strength began to wane, and Sunder drew closer to her skull, Vinye's thoughts went to Falinesti, of that massacre she'd perpetuated—of her father, unrecognizable among all the other bodies he himself had helped to slaughter—and she felt her hackles rise as fury took hold of her once again. But this fury was more controlled; Vinye had grown since that night in Valenwood, and her talent at the arcane arts had grown as well. Instead of pushing that fury out of her, she let it spread over her body, letting all her hatred focus on the Falmer before her.

Her hair rose all over her body—her neck, her arms, her head, everywhere—and slowly but surely, she began to push back. Lightning curled over her arms, coiling around her chest, surrounding her entire body in rippling blue energy. The snow elf snarled as realization washed over him—at exactly the same time as the lightning did.

"Break _this_," Vinye growled, and clenched her hands as tight as she could.

If he had only let go, the Falmer would have survived for that much longer. But his simple mind was too focused on eradicating the outsider before him—and keeping his precious hammer in his claws. Doing one would have involved forgoing the other—but the Falmer had mentally regressed too far to be able to seek an alternative solution.

He died thus, screaming in agonized fury all the while as Vinye roasted him alive with her lightning. When at last he expired with a final choking gasp, he finally released Sunder from his hands, and tumbled dead in front of the Altmer, sizzling like a freshly cooked side of meat.

Victorious, Vinye wrenched the dagger from the artifact, taking extreme care not to damage either. She turned Sunder over in her hand, admiring the intricate workmanship that had gone into its construction. The crystal faces of the hammer were flawlessly formed—a single chip off the main body would have sold for far more than even the biggest, most perfect diamond in all of Tamriel. The handle was pure ebony, and the golden metal was perfectly smooth and polished in spite of its previous owner.

_Beautiful_, she thought.

She searched around the ruined chamber, grabbing a few strips of the cleanest linen she could find. After securely wrapping Sunder in them, Vinye reverently placed the artifact in her pack, and proceeded across the bridge. Hopefully there would be a lift on the other side—she would much prefer not to have to backtrack all the way as with Rkund.

But Raldbthar had one last surprise in store for her.

* * *

The chamber led into what Vinye assumed must have been some kind of marketplace, once her feeling of wonderment had subsided. Treasure was _everywhere_; ingots of gold and silver—even of ebony—and a scattering of rings, amulets, and jeweled crowns were placed on gilded shelves. Some of them glowed green and blue with various enchantments. Vinye swept them all into her pack, thinking she might study those enchantments, and perhaps even apply them to more of the jewelry.

A strange glint of color caught her eye suddenly, from a branching hallway behind and to her right. Frowning, Vinye moved down its length, approaching the pedestal at the end where the light was coming from.

It was some kind of mineral, she could see; a glimmering aquamarine color, like the Abacean off Firsthold in a summer midday. Expertly carved, too—the half-circular edge of the outside was geometrically perfect, and many of the grooves cut into the mineral were thinner than her fingernail. The craftsmanship that went toward this little thing must have been more than the merpower that created Sunder.

This bore closer research; Vinye slid this into her pack as well and turned away.

The opposite hallway contained a lift that presumably led back to the surface, but between it and Vinye was a square spiral staircase that led further down still, and Vinye decided to check that out before taking the lift.

It was only a short way down, and revealed only a small, unremarkable hallway before ending in a set of golden double doors. Vinye pushed them open.

And she _stared_.

The most immense cavern she had ever seen was spread out before her; so massive it could have swallowed an entire hold of Skyrim. So high was the ceiling that the greenish-blue clouds inside swallowed it up completely. Giant glowing mushrooms, hundreds of feet tall, dotted the cave, and tiny spores floated all around her like underground snow. The silhouettes of countless Dwemer towers completed the spectacle, surrounded by rocks that glowed eerie shades of green, purple, and blue.

_My gods …_

Vinye moved her mouth, but nothing came out. There were simply no words to describe the sheer magnificence of her eyes were seeing. Falmer, Falinesti, and Sunder were all dispelled, replaced by this awesome sight. The sights of Skyrim had been lost forever to her. She could live to be a thousand, and she doubted anything would quite eclipse the strange beauty of this place.

After what felt like hours, she tottered along the Dwemer road on numb legs, taking in the vista of the massive waterfall that it spanned. But with every sight she saw, two more seemed to take her place. She would need years, if not decades, to study this cave in its entirety.

_When all this is done,_ she vowed, _I know where I'm going._

_I could fill an entire library on this place. Both the Synod _and_ the College of Whispers would be _begging_ me to come back!_

Eventually, she discovered a winding column of carved rock connecting the ceiling with the cavern floor, and she could see the lever to a lift inside when she drew closer. Reluctantly, she pulled the lever, and felt the platform heave upwards with a groan.

Vinye wanted nothing more than to stay inside that cave forever, but her mind—while sorely tempted—was set nonetheless. And so it was that, when she finally emerged in the snow of Skyrim an hour later, the sun glinting off the snow and blinding her eyes after spending so long in darkness, she set back on her way to Winterhold. It was close enough, she thought, that she might have some time to drop off her things and change into some new robes before heading to Whiterun and reuniting with Malys and Cosette.

_Those two are _not_ going to believe what I found down there …_

* * *

_WInterhold_

It was nighttime the next day when Vinye finally arrived back at the College. In that time, she had thought up what she hoped was a suitable name for her new elven dagger. Vinye had never put that much stock in naming things in her youth; sentimental value of an object had always been second to its functionality in her mind. Nevertheless, she felt confident that "Kinsbane" would be a suitable name; it had defeated one of the most powerful relics of the deep elves, along with the snow elf that had possessed it.

She strapped Kinsbane to her belt. Now that the dagger had a name, perhaps she ought to give a unique enchantment. A shock enchantment was first and foremost in her thoughts; it was straightforward, but also a little simpler than she felt it ought to be. After all, this was a very personal weapon for her, and—

"Ah! You are back so soon?"

Vinye jumped to see J'zargo coming out of the Hall of the Elements, clutching a very ancient spellbook in his paws—no doubt containing more mysteries of Aetherius just waiting to be unraveled.

"Urag has been asking for you all day," the Khajiit informed her. "He seemed very excited about something, this one thought."

Vinye's heart rose—had her research borne fruit already? "Is he still there?"

"J'zargo is not so sure he ever sleeps," he muttered. He coughed suddenly, waving his paw over his nose. "Ugh—where have you been for the past three days, Khajiit would like to know? This one stinks of the Falmer!"

Vinye cringed—she'd forgotten how sensitive Khajiit senses were. She hurriedly apologized and made her way inside before J'zargo could ask any more questions.

She entered the Arcaneum an hour later, a fresh change of robes over her shoulders and her pack freshly emptied of everything inside besides her books, Sunder, and that strange crystal.

Urag was waiting for her, scowling as always. "J'zargo told me to come see you," she informed him, keeping her voice down. Other scholars were present inside, and she was sworn to secrecy about the nature of her research.

Apparently Urag shared the same opinion; he pushed over a slip of parchment to Vinye without a word, and went back to his book with a supremely unconcerned grunt once the Altmer had taken it in her hands.

Vinye opened the letter and began to skim over its contents. The farther her eyes traveled down the page, the more pronounced her frown became. She read it again, more slowly this time.

And then she read it again.

Suddenly, she was dashing out of the Arcaneum as fast as she could go, white-faced in a mixture of confusion and horror, mind racing at top speed. Urag's shouts rang through the library, but didn't register in her ears at all.

She felt her legs carrying her out of the Hall of the Elements, and out of the College, all the way out into Winterhold, towards the carriage outside the Frozen Hearth. She leaped on board with a burst of strength that nearly sent her flying headlong into the half-terrified driver.

"Whiterun—now!" she panted, too exhausted to give him an apology. She practically threw her entire purse at him in her haste. "_Step on it!_" she screamed.

She barely had time to grasp the handrail before the horse lurched from a standstill into a breakneck gallop, heading south for Whiterun Hold.

_This changes everything_, Vinye thought as she glanced once more at the letter's contents. _Auri-El, help me if I'm too late—and help Whiterun as well._

_Because if I'm right, there might not _be_ a Whiterun for much longer …_

* * *

**A/N: Nope, no "Next chapter" cliffhanger this time. Muahahaha. Also, writing flashbacks is weird—or maybe I'm just that bad at writing. Or both.**

**Some recent developments: I have an upcoming job interview coming up. If I end up landing this, it's going to fill up what little of my fall schedule hasn't already been taken by my college classes. So it's very likely that updates for ****_Second Seed_**** will be even less frequent than I anticipated in the months to come.**

**Anyway, I hope y'all are having a pleasant summer. Wish me luck, and as always, thanks for reading! - K**


	9. VIII

**A/N: Remember two chapters ago when I said updates would be shorter? Yeah … (ducks under table)**

**Anyway, as with Chapter II, a large part of this update is rife with many ****_intentional_**** grammatical errors. Also, a number of passages contain content of a sexual and possibly taboo nature, depending on your culture. ****Consider this your only warning.**

**This is probably the toughest piece I've ever written, not least because of the aforementioned passages; it's my first attempt at anything remotely approaching the sexual or sensual—and I'm worried that all that hard work has turned out to be little more than stool-water as a result.**

**But enough on that; let's get to the story. Rate, review, or recommend if you wish, and I hope you enjoy! - K**

VIII

_Eastmarch_

Malys stepped out of the ruins of Mzulft with a less-than-cheerful look on her face. She'd anticipated that there wouldn't have been much left to search for if J'zargo had been there before as he'd said, but surely he'd had to have left a few corners untouched. But even a cursory look inside the ruins had turned up nothing—even the large ferns that overgrew the carved rock walls in places seemed to have a few cuttings missing from them.

As she entered the courtyard of the ruin, shielding her face from the mid-morning sunlight, she saw another building far off to her left, independent of Mzulft proper, and decided to investigate. Perhaps J'zargo had overlooked this building on his expedition inside; even if the wily Khajiit had been here, she could not take the risk.

It turned out to be little more than a storeroom, and looked rather clean for a Dwemer ruin. But Malys' heart rose when she saw the gates behind it, and the treasures contained within. Entire ingots of the strange Dwarven metal were locked away alongside several items of jewelry and Dwarven weapons propped up on shelves. But it was the object behind the gate in front of her that had captivated her.

The bars of the gate didn't afford much of a view, but from what the Dunmer could see, it was flat and shiny, and glowed an eerie blue. She peered down at the lock, and frowned; it too was glowing slightly, which was strange for a lock. Was it trapped? Enchanted? She caressed it with a single finger, directing a small amount of her frost magic into the keyhole.

The effect was immediate; whatever enchantment around the lock deflected the cold air completely—apparently it had been enchanted to where it could only be opened by physical means—most likely by a particular key, and Malys couldn't be bothered with finding that. She huffed under her breath in frustration, and then again when she realized she'd forgotten to bring lockpicks.

But all was not lost; there appeared to be another way inside, and through the adjacent gate no less. Moreover, closer inspection revealed that _this_ lock was unshielded against Malys' frost magic, and she forced her way through after only a minute of rusting the mechanism. The second door in her way was more or less the same, and took even less time to corrode.

Heart rushing in enthusiasm, Malys ran toward the pedestal where she'd seen the glowing blue object. Now that she was much closer to it, she could make out a sort of half-moon shape, with a strangely carved shape jutting from the middle. It was intricately detailed, and Malys instinctively knew that only the dwarves could have produced something like this.

She pocketed it without a second thought, along with all the other trinkets she'd passed. Most of them she could sell; Malys was sure there was a blacksmith in Shor's Stone that would take the bulk of her haul. Perhaps if she were lucky, she'd find some more ruins along her journey southward—and who knew what lay within those?

Malys grinned as she left the now-empty storeroom, and a faraway part of her brain pondered if this was how J'zargo felt every time he entered a ruin or a dungeon.

_This must be my lucky day_, she thought.

* * *

"This is _not_ my lucky day," Malys grumbled four hours later.

She'd scoured almost all the Velothi Mountains that bordered Eastmarch, and not one of them contained a single cave or clue that the Dwemer had ever carved a single stone there. Perhaps those ruins were all on the other side of the range, she thought. She hoped that wasn't the case—there were very few passes from Skyrim to Morrowind—and surely none of them would have been routed through these infernal mountains.

She came upon a bend in the road at length—the same one where she had encountered the bandit called Gjavar, she realized—and she shuddered at the memory, though she could not tell whether it was out of fear or … _No_, she thought hurriedly, shaking her head. _Get out of there_.

Mercifully, a figure came up from behind her, distracting Malys from her thoughts. Small and nimble—a Bosmer, she saw, judging from his brown pointed ears. She was taken aback at his primitive armor; it reminded her of the chitinous armor that was sometimes worn in Morrowind, and looked like it had cut from the hide of some huge, spiky, purplish-blue insect.

Now that she saw him closer up, she decided the wood elf looked rather imposing despite his size—even with the armor, he was still several inches shorter than Malys. A nasty-looking gash ran across his face, and his scarred muscular arms had seen more action than even her suit of elven armor.

"What are you looking at?" he said irritably.

Malys fumbled over her tongue—she was still too busy taking the sight of this Bosmer in. "What kind of armor is _that_ supposed to be?"

"Chaurus chitin," the Bosmer said smugly. "All my weapons are made from Chaurus chitin, too." Malys noticed the spiky twin swords hanging either side of his waist—somehow they looked even heavier and even more brutal than Cosette's Forsworn blade. An equally nasty-looking bow and quiver of arrows hung over his back as well.

"Name's Gadriath," continued the wood elf as he introduced himself. "Mercenary and exterminator for hire for nigh on ten years, and I've earned my keep across half of Tamriel."

_Mercenary?_ Suddenly Malys felt her good luck returning. Her frost magic wouldn't do any good against those damned Dwemer golems; if she was going to encounter any of them, she would definitely need some help. "Are you offering your services to me?" she asked, concealing a smile at her own double-entendre.

"There was word of some trouble around here," Gadriath said stiffly. "I was on my way to take a look. If you want more than that, it's going to cost you."

Malys raised an eyebrow. _So that's how it is_. She opened her pack, and extracted some of the heaviest trinkets she'd purloined from that storeroom near Mzulft. "I have"—she made a quick count—"ten ingots of Dwemer metal, and a dwarven sword." She inspected the blade. "Barely used, looks like a … magicka-draining enchantment."

Gadriath considered this. "Not a bad haul for a greenhorn," he said. "Dwarven treasure's a big commodity in some circles." He suddenly crossed his arms. "I am _not_ a part of those circles. You want in, you pay me in gold."

Malys resisted the urge to roll her eyes—she had figured he would say that. "There's a blacksmith at Shor's Stone," she said. "Whatever he gives me for all this is yours."

Gadraith mulled this over in his head for the longest few seconds of Malys' life. Finally, he nodded. "Deal."

* * *

_Outside Shor's Stone_

All told, Malys' dwarven haul netted the Bosmer close to four hundred septims. Even better, their destination—something the local population called Tolvald's Cave, according to Gadriath—was located only a short distance eastward of Shor's Stone.

The inside of the cave looked rather unassuming, although there were remnants of a campfire were strewn about the ground, and the freshly dead body of a hunter. His effects were littered among the embers of the fire; Malys could see a journal and a set of lockpicks among the trash. She picked them up, brushing the ashes off them.

"So what was this 'trouble' you were called in about, Gadriath?" she asked, inspecting the contents of the book.

The wood elf didn't answer, and there was only a faint chewing noise. Worried, Malys turned to look back. "Gadri—_augh!"_

She recoiled at the sight of Gadriath sinking his sharpened teeth into the dead hunter's neck. There were already a few suspicious-looking bites in various places on the body. "_What are you doing?!_" she whispered, too surprised and disgusted to raise her voice any higher.

Gadriath looked at her in surprise. "I'm from Valenwood—it's my religion," he said simply, spitting out something hard and unmentionable. "I follow the Green Pact; I don't eat fruit or vegetables—only meat. Cannibalism is fair game—just like every other animal." He swallowed whatever was left in his mouth, and Malys had no idea how she wasn't sick all over the cave right then and there.

Her expression must have irked Gadriath in some way. "I figured you knew," he said defensively. "Most of my clients come to me for help because they already know I follow the Green P—_watch it!_"

Before Malys could say anything, Gadriath had notched an arrow, drawn his bow, and fired directly at her. The arrow sailed mere inches past the surprised elf's ear, and she heard a strangled yowl from directly behind her. Malys turned around, and immediately felt her anger and disgust drain from her mind at the giant sabre cat that had been preparing to pounce on her—and would have torn her apart if not for the arrow in its skull.

Gadriath effortlessly plucked the arrow from the feline's carcass, and lazily flicked the remains of the eye he'd shot from the missile. "You're welcome," he said to Malys, a faint smirk upon his face.

Malys tried to say something, but no words came out, and she found herself opening and closing her jaw repetitively like a fish. " … Okay, you win," she groaned, kicking the slain sabre cat disdainfully. "But the next time you're feeling hungry, let me know so I don't have to watch, all right? And try to keep it quiet," she added.

She peered behind a natural column of the cave, and something familiar caught her eye. "Gadriath, look at this," she said, motioning him over. "There's ruins in this cave—Dwarven ruins; I recognize the stonework on this archway. Maybe we should take a closer look."

The Bosmer straightened. He didn't look happy to hear that news. "I hate Dwarven ruins," he grumbled.

"Why?" Malys asked. "Those machines of theirs can't be that bad, can they?"

"It's not the machines I'm worried about," Gadriath said ominously, but he did not elaborate.

Eventually, he shrugged. "All right," he said heavily. "I'll go with you; I have a hard time repairing this armor as it is—but this is going to cost you a lot extra."

"Take what you want as we go," Malys said. "I'm only looking for some particular Dwarven artifacts, and I'm not entirely sure I'm going to find anything like that in a cave like this. So unless I say otherwise, you can take everything that isn't tied down for all I care."

Gadriath grunted skeptically, but eventually nodded his head. "Fair enough," he said, as they crossed under the archway into Tolvald's Cave. They encountered several more sabre cats along their way, as well as more bodies of ill-fated hunters, and Malys made sure to cover her eyes and ears while Gadriath sated his strange appetite.

Eventually, they reached a low-hanging cave that forced Malys to bend nearly double to cross it. More of the glowing mushrooms she'd seen in Rkund festooned the cave walls, and surrounded a small dwarven door. Behind that, a large semicircular chest rested on a table. Shadows thrown from the gas-powered lamp above it dominated the cave walls like some gigantic black spider.

"Wait," Gadriath said as Malys approached the chest. "It's too easy a target—that chest has to be trapped somehow. Let me take a look at it."

He drew out a lockpick from a pouch near his sword, and inspected the chest at length. "Ah-ha," he said triumphantly. He fiddled with something Malys couldn't see for a few seconds, and then there was a twanging noise. "There—that should have disabled the trap," a satisfied Gadriath said as he pried open the lid of the chest. "Now to—"

_twang_

Gadriath leapt back suddenly as the chest—which they both belatedly realized had been double-trapped—was suddenly pelted with tiny darts. A number of them hit his armor, and a few more dug into his flesh. A few of them ricocheted and hit Malys as well, ripping through her robes, and she hissed through her teeth in pain.

And then, as if that wasn't enough, several perfectly camouflaged sections of the cave—one either side of the duo—heaved upwards. Three shadowy figures emerged from the secret alcoves, blocking all possible ways out.

Malys had no idea what these … _things_ were. They walked like men bent double, looked vaguely like elves from what little she could tell by their silhouetted forms—but they didn't sound like either; the only noise they made was a wet, labored breathing. The only other thing she knew about them was that they would definitely be hostile.

But before Malys could think to attack them, Gadriath clapped a hand over her wrist. He shook his head imperceptibly at the Dunmer, then motioned to the figures, and finally drew a finger across his neck.

He skulked away from Malys then, weaving his way behind the figures and leaving the Dunmer to wonder what was stranger: that his heavy-looking armor didn't make any noise, or that the figures didn't seem to notice he was sneaking behind them—until it was too late.

The Bosmer drew his sword, and—once, twice, thrice—slit their throats in rapid succession. The man-things fell one by one, and Gadriath laid them silently to the ground in calm, practiced movements.

Malys let out a breath in relief as the Bosmer strode to her, wiping off his brutal-looking blade on the cave floor and looking rather annoyed. "Who were they?" she asked.

"The last remnants of the snow elves—the Falmer," Gadriath answered, picking darts out of his body. "Have a look for yourself."

Malys cast a candlelight spell, and promptly gasped in horror as she saw the Falmer clearly for the first time. It was like she'd flipped over a rock and seen something disgusting wriggling underneath, only a hundred times bigger.

"Mm-hmm," agreed Gadriath wearily. "After the ancient Nords drove them underground, the Falmer came to the dwarves for help. But the Dwemer tricked them—blinded them first, then turned them into nothing more than feral savages. Slaves. After the dwarves disappeared, they left the Falmer behind to breed like skeevers in their wake."

Malys felt her dislike of the Nords and the dwarves deepen even further. _To condemn an entire species like that …_

"Since the Falmer can't see, they hunt by sound and smell instead," Gadriath continued. "That's why they didn't notice me sneak up to them—I had my greaves doubly enchanted by a Telvanni wizard after I cleared a nest of scribs from his tower. Helps my stealth and muffles my footsteps, too. Saved my life more times than I can count."

Malys was too busy staring wild-eyed at the Falmer and their primitive armor and weapons—which she noted looked suspiciously like the effects Gadriath was carrying. "Where exactly did you get your armor?" she asked.

"Some Dwarven ruin in the Pale—I forget the name—and guess what it was filled to the rafters with," the Bosmer said dismissively. "But I'd like to know how they didn't detect _you_. A novice of Winterhold doesn't know enough magic to escape detection by a whole nest of Falmer."

Malys shrugged. "I … guess I just stayed really quiet," she said lamely.

Gadriath didn't look too convinced. "Well, at any rate, I'll definitely be earning my keep in here," he said, drawing out his bow. "One thing I've learned in my time about the Falmer and the Dwemer—the bigger the mountain, the bigger the ruin … and the bigger the hive. And we're right under one of the biggest mountain ranges in Tamriel."

Malys felt a sudden fear rising up in her insides.

Gadriath tested the string on his bow, and adjusted his quiver. "So I really hope they taught you well up at that College," he said. "Dead men tell no tales, after all—and they don't pay any dues, either."

And with that, the mercenary crept into one of the passages revealed by the fake walls, Malys following behind him.

There were indeed more Falmer in the next few chambers; two of them were crouched over the mangled bodies of a hunting party. Gadriath felled them with one arrow each—one to the head, another to the heart—with the practiced arm of a Bosmer who'd clearly spent most of his life holding a bow; he wielded it like an extension of his own body.

Three more Falmer came to investigate the commotion, squeezing out of cracks and holes in the cave that would have crushed any other man or mer, and Malys killed them with a quick volley of ice spikes. One of them got so close to the Dunmer that she applied a little too much magic out of panic, and her attack went straight through the Falmer's heart and into the chest of the companion behind him, earning an appreciative nod from the wood elf.

They took several moments to catch their breath, and inspected the Falmer camp they'd just cleared out. The remains of several ill-fated adventurers lay inside a tent; one of them was clutching a spellbook, judging by its cover (_Flesh, Bone, and Metal: An Apprentice's Guide to Defensive Magic_). Malys pried it from the man's dead fingers, and leafed through the smudged pages.

"Flesh spells," she murmured—a colloquial term for layering the body with a dense, armor-like shell of magic. "Could be useful against these Falmer."

Gadriath made a noise of disapproval as Malys leafed through the tome. "You need more than magic to clear out a Falmer hive," he said. "They live and breathe poison, you know; they soak their weapons in whole vats of the stuff. One scratch is all it takes—even wards and 'flesh spells' won't do you any good."

_Wonderful_, Malys thought dryly, pocketing the spellbook for later as they squeezed through a crevice filled with moss that glowed as bright as day. "And I suppose you know how to fight them?" she asked with a wry smile.

"Hit them," said Gadriath, "before they get close enough to hit you. If you want to beat an enemy, you have to think like him first. Study him, both up close and far away. I've spent half my career building up a resistance to that poison of theirs, and I've learned to watch for even the tiniest hole where one might be able to fit. There is no one in Skyrim better equipped than me against the Falmer," he finished, crossing his arms boastfully.

Malys, meanwhile, had to wonder how much of his talk was just that.

* * *

After groping around in the pitch-black darkness for a long while, the two elves eventually encountered an underground river. There were crevices in every direction, and Malys could see some tents on the opposite ledge, illuminated by glowing fungi of every shape and size.

"I don't like this," she said, after scanning the entire chamber and noticing a distinct lack of Falmer. It reminded her too much of that double-trapped door in Rkund—an ambush waiting to happen.

Gadriath had already nocked an arrow. "Agreed," he said. "I'll draw them out—see what we're dealing with."

He fired the arrow, which clattered off one of the far-off tents. Instantly, the scene exploded into activity; dozens of Falmer emerged from their hiding places all around the cave. Most were a fair distance away, and were separated by a drop of ten, maybe fifteen feet. Others, however, were far closer—close enough to have detected the sound of Gadriath firing his bow, and close enough to engage.

Malys saw a half-dozen Falmer making their way up the ledge towards them. She quickly charged more ice magic, and impaled one of the cave-elves through his neck, sending him tumbling down into the river below, where he was promptly swept away by the current. Gadriath shot a second Falmer between his shoulder blades before unsheathing his twin swords. Malys readied some healing magic in her other hand; Gadriath was the only chance she had against those dwarven automatons, and if those Falmer got close enough to rush him en masse—

_Rip them apart._

Malys stumbled—her stomach had seized up without warning, as though she'd suddenly become very hungry, and several things happened at once. Her fists clenched of their own volition, and she felt her nails digging into her palms. They became very cold, like she'd plunged them into the Sea of Ghosts; she did a double take when she saw the jagged, lethal shards that had formed over her hands.

_How did I—?!_

And then she felt her body twisting, contorting like an acrobat into the midst of the Falmer—her icy hands-turned-blades scything among them, tearing into their wasted flesh—

_—the nord lay beneath Her on the bed, naked but for his loincloth; Her hands—frozen into jagged claws—caressed him, slapped and jabbed at him, bringing him both pleasure and pain as the blood trickled from his wounds—_

Malys' stomach convulsed again, and the image was gone; she dropped to her knees and gasped for breath, not even noticing Gadriath's expression, or the dead Falmer around her. She could not quite believe what had just happened.

_Who was that?_ Her thoughts ran wild as she desperately searched for an answer. What _was that? I've never … I …_

_I don't remember …_

Malys jumped when she felt the wood elf put a hand on her shoulder. "I'm fine," she said hurriedly, before he opened his mouth. "I just—I had some stomach cramps, that's all."

"For good reason," Gadriath said. He was pointing at Malys' forearm, and looked shaky. Malys followed his finger, and blanched when she saw the sizable gash that had been opened up in her arm. The wound ran from wrist to elbow-going clear to the bone at its deepest—and was covered in reddish-black splashes.

Her blood, she realized—and Falmer blood.

Quickly as she could, Malys pulled out a restorative potion from her bag, drank it, and used her magic to finish the job. But Gadriath still looked very uneasy.

"That blade was poisoned," he said, when Malys asked him why. "Remember when I said one scratch was enough? Well, you had a lot more than a scratch, and you don't look like you've been affected at all."

"Maybe the poison was old," Malys shrugged—but even she wasn't convinced. Whatever she had seen in her head couldn't have been some bolt-from-the-blue recollection. Was it some kind of hallucinogen? It was possible that the Falmer could have used some sort of fear toxin—though she had to admit, they were terrifying enough as it was.

"All the same, we can't just rush in like that," Gadriath said. "We got lucky last time; do that again, one of us is going to die." He looked pointedly at Malys. "Best way to approach this is to take them out one at a time. Slow, but steady. We'll attack, hang back for a while until they decide we've gone, and repeat until they're dead. Falmer aren't the smartest creatures in this cave—but they're close up there, so we need to be very, very careful."

Malys swallowed. "I'm right behind you, then," she said. _Keep this elf alive_, she thought, instinctively preparing more healing magic.

The Bosmer didn't seem to really need her help, though. As they continued going further and further into the labyrinthine network, Malys began to notice more and more just how adept Gadriath was at dealing with the Falmer. The musty smell of the cave was stronger in some places than others, and the wood elf used them to his advantage: he would maneuver himself so that a freshly rotting carcass of an animal—or a dead Falmer—sat between himself and his target so as to conceal his own scent. Malys also suspected that the elf's weapons and armor, being of Falmer origin, had the same pungent smell that pervaded this cave, and therefore masked his scent further still.

Sometimes Gadriath would also fire more arrows at no particular place for any particular reason. But Malys soon came to learn that this was useful for distracting the cave-elves into locating the sudden disturbance—at which point he would down them all with such ease that it might as well have been target practice for an archer of his caliber.

After many hours' worth of these guerrilla tactics, Malys and Gadriath came upon another large cave, where several more Falmer were stationed. Strange chitters and clicks echoed off the rock walls, and Malys heard a sharp intake of breath from the Bosmer.

"Chaurus," he whispered. "Big damn bugs. The Falmer breed them for just about everything. Weapons, armor, all their poisons, all their homes—even their _waste disposal_."

Malys thought of the remains of that hunting party she'd seen earlier in the cave, and felt a wave of nausea pass over her as the implications sank in.

"I once cleared out a hive where their chief actually used a chaurus as a steed," Gadriath went on. "Toughest job I ever had to do."

Malys looked for any telltale cracks or holes in the wall, but found none. The cave was larger than any they'd been in thus far, however, and she could not see the space in its entirety. _Unless_—

"I want to take a closer look, maybe try to draw them towards us," she said under her breath, charging more ice in her hands. "Think you can cover me, Gadriath?"

Silence.

" … Gadriath?"

Again there was no reply. She turned around, and her heart sank into Oblivion: the Bosmer was nowhere to be seen.

_He left me here!_ Malys thought, fear and anger clutching her lungs like twin vices. _That little n'wah _abandoned_ me!_

She turned back the way she came, thinking she could catch up with him and give him a piece of her mind. But immediately the more rational part of her mind began to wonder why Gadriath would do something like this. He'd been promised a _very_ fetching reward, and he'd not offered any sort of alibi for running off on Malys like this. Resignation and reluctance, maybe—but not outright rebellion!

Malys trudged back into the cave with the chaurus, but tripped over a loose rock—a rock that hadn't been there before, she thought. She looked at her feet, reaching blindly towards the object—and that feeling of fear tightened its hold on her yet again when she saw its familiar insectoid shape, small enough to fit snugly over one's head.

_Gadriath's helmet_.

Malys craned her neck upward, her spine digging against the collar of her elven armor, and noticed a fairly wide fissure under where the two elves had been standing not a minute ago. Three feet long, maybe one wide, she surmised, large enough for a man to fit inside, if he was willing—or _un_willing.

The clicking noises were growing louder.

Malys felt her feet rooted to the ground in terror. It was looking less and less likely that Gadriath had left under his own power. She felt a cool, pungent wind rush over her face—and she smelled the telltale metallic odor of blood.

It was coming from the fissure.

Malys knew she was dead if she stayed where she was. If she retreated, she was _almost_ certainly dead. And if she pressed on … The Dunmer gulped. There was only one solution she could see—and she wasn't too happy about it.

And so, throwing all sense of stealth and caution to the winds, she charged forward.

Not a moment too soon, either: as she sprinted into the cave, firing ice spikes wherever she saw movement, she heard something large and heavy impact the ground behind her. She did not check to see if it had followed her, and frankly, she did not care—she was too focused on killing everything inside this musty, Daedra-forsaken cave.

The Falmer were first to go—Malys wasted no time in turning them into giant pincushions with her ice magic. She cast them from her fingers this time; the shards were smaller, but thinner and faster, and more spread out as well. She didn't know why the idea had occurred to her, but Malys wasn't about to take any chances with—

_—she was naked, spread-eagled against the wall, and struggled against her bonds in pretend terror while needles of ice caressed her, guided by Her expert hands; the redguard moaned as She marked the taut flesh with Her magic—_

_They are beneath you—_all_ of them._

Before Malys could process this, her stomach gave another searing twitch; more violent this time, like a red-hot knife had sliced through her chest, and she screamed in pain. That drew the attention of the chaurus within the cave; they were enclosed in some kind of pen, but without any Falmer to keep it shut, the chaurus were free to roam where they wished now—and they wished to feed on this new, unwelcome arrival.

Out of the pen they crawled; three of them, each as big as a dog, and spitting gobs of black slime at Malys from their hideous jaws. The Dunmer threw up a ward too late, and the goo spattered against her clothes, burning through her robes and corroding her elven armor even further. Some of it landed on exposed flesh, and Malys felt a stinging sensation as the venom bubbled against her gray skin.

_Damn!_

But somehow, the venom wasn't doing what it was supposed to, which struck the Dunmer as odd. Perhaps they were domesticated, these chaurus; was it possible that the Falmer had removed the poisonous parts of their body to prevent any danger being done to them—?

The lead chaurus suddenly lunged at her, jaws wide open, and Malys thrust both hands at the monster and fired one giant ice spike into its maw. The insect was propelled away from her, and thrashed in its death throes; the two remaining chaurus retreated to a safe distance, and snapped their jaws threateningly at her.

Malys knew using her regular ice magic was suicide. She needed something more potent than that—a single attack, but one that could hit multiple targets, like what Vinye could do with her lightning.

She thought of the desolation of Molag Amur, and the churning ash storms that had ravaged the region. Malys willed the icy magic in her hand to swirl like those storms, concentrating it into a single point, and then molding that point, rotating it through force of will until it felt like she was holding a tiny tornado in her palm.

She released that tornado at the exact moment the chaurus charged again. The swirling white clouds of the ice storm grew and grew as they traveled outward to meet the insects, until it had enveloped them both. Their chitinous bodies froze solid in the extreme cold Malys had generated, and shattered into thousands of pieces under the combined weight of their bulk and the ice that coated them.

Malys let out a single breath in relief, but she knew that she had nothing to be relieved about at all.

Her guide had disappeared without a trace.

Her only defense against the Dwemer was gone.

She had absolutely no idea where in Skyrim she was.

And yet, against her will and all better judgment, Malys felt her legs carrying her forward once again, towards a goal that she wasn't even sure had existed in the first place. She swallowed; whatever lay ahead of her—Dwemer, Falmer, or worse—then she had no other choice but to face it head-on.

Alone.

* * *

The path took her alongside the same river as before, and led up a steep incline. At its crest was a single bridge of grated metal, which Malys took as a sign of good luck; the Dwemer had been here, and the thought of them laying a bridge here of all places suggested that there might be a sizable ruin nearby.

A single armored Falmer patrolled the bridge, masked by the glowing mist of an underground waterfall. Malys dispatched him with another overcharged ice spike, sending him plunging into the bottomless depths below.

Her spirits rose further when she saw the paved footpath beyond the bridge—the dwarves had actually taken the time and resources to make an underground road! Whatever this road led to, Malys knew it was something big—and that it was most likely heavily guarded.

Suddenly, Malys' boots brushed against a loose part of the road, and she looked downward. It was a journal, so faded it was almost unreadable. She could only make out snippets of writing amongst all the torn pages:

_—another dream of Red Mountain erupting. People running as flaming rocks the size of cantons fell from the sky—_

_—can still see my brother's outstretched arm, as he tried to reach the silt strider and walked right out into the boiling waters—_

_—not just Vvardenfell, all of Morrowind was hit by the rocks. There's no work and no food will grow under the ashes. We are going to try for Skyrim—_

Malys bowed her head as she closed the faded diary. The hell that had been the Red Year was one of the few memories still fresh in her mind. Vvardenfell had been completely destroyed in the cataclysm, and her homeland was nothing but a wasteland now.

_—the sky was thick with ash, and She held a cloth over her mouth to protect Herself from suffocating—_

It had been the only time in her life where she could remember being so helpless, her senses being overloaded by light and sound and the stench of decay.

_—She ran for the city gates, and heard men, elves and beastfolk alike wailing in Suran's streets as their parents, their children, husbands, and wives, and all their loved ones choked to death in front of them, and Her heart ached as the crowds' own cries were suddenly silenced without warning by the lethal clouds and burning rocks—_

This journal must have been written by one of the survivors, she thought. He'd joined up with a caravan of some sort, where there was food and water to be found, and companionship as well—perhaps even love.

_—the wind whipped at Her face as the boat sailed from Balmora, towards a future She knew not where—_

And Malys had survived it, too. But her memory was incomplete; how she had ended up going from Suran to Windhelm was a mystery she had never been fully able to solve—

Malys felt the hairs rising on the back of her neck suddenly, and her body tensed. She sniffed the air cautiously; as if she could detect a smell she could not quite place. But the smell wasn't so much physical as it was mental—her mind was buzzing in alarm.

She was not alone.

She quickened her pace along the winding Dwemer road, checking over her shoulder periodically to make sure she wasn't being followed, but always finding nothing.

The remnants of a smashed carriage lay before her, its previous occupants now nothing more than skeletons. One of them clutched an old staff, carved in the likeness of a dragon. Malys sensed its power as soon as she touched it, and she slung it over her shoulder; this staff might come in useful. Another skeletal hand clutched a journal more tattered than the one she found earlier, and almost as illegible:

_—hearing things in the darkness, every sound seems amplified and it is hard to sleep over the sobbing—_

_—Madras has started hallucinating from hunger. Says she saw a white elf peering out at us from the dark corners of the tunnel—_

_—used to be a battlemage and tried to hold them off—_

_—caused a cave-in … some of them escaped, but we were trapped with these things—_

_—now hold us prisoner—_

_—given up hope of escape—_

Malys frowned as she read the faded words. Somehow the caravan had managed to find their way inside this cave, and they had run astray of the Falmer inside. How, though? Had there been a way under the mountains at that time?

And that name … Madras … it sounded familiar to her for some reason—

_—the caravan slowed to a halt as She cried out to the figures on board, and Her spirits rose; they had heard her voice. She was safe …_

_"Where are You headed?"_

_"Windhelm," She replied._

_"Well, myself and the rest of us are heading the complete other way for Riften, but you're welcome to take what you need to get there—within reason, of course," said one of the elves, a female—and expecting, judging by her swollen belly. "I'm madras."_

_"Malys Aryon, House Hlaalu." The two women shook hands—_

She stiffened again. Whatever she had sensed earlier had returned; she could feel that malevolent presence close by—a cold, savage _evil_.

And it was getting closer.

She stopped only to empty the chest the carriage had been transporting among its long-spoiled food and worn clothes; a sizable purse of gold and some lockpicks were all that could be salvaged. Then she continued on, her pace faster than before; she almost sprinted to the next cavern in her efforts to escape whatever was behind her.

The entrance to a Dwemer ruin lay at the end of this cave, flanked by collapsed passages and more ruined wagons. Dozens of decomposing corpses of both Falmer and chaurus littered the area, along with more skeletons of unfortunate dark elves. The nearest to the door of the ruin held yet another ruined trailbook, and Malys frantically leafed through the ripped pages:

_—map we traded a glass dagger to get is a fake. We can't find the pass marked over the mountains—_

_—should have tried for The Rift—_

_—took shelter from the storm in the ruins … stepped on a pressure plate and trapped us inside—_

_—Gildryn said there's dwarven roads that lead under the mountains … have to try—_

Malys stopped dead in her tracks as the words sank in. The map had been forged, or perhaps incorrectly read, and the poor elves had found themselves hopelessly lost. In an act of desperation, they had fled into a dwarven ruin to seek shelter from a storm, and tried their chances at breaking through to Skyrim under the mountains instead …

But what had grabbed her attention was the name in the journal. Gildryn.

_Gildryn … that name sounds familiar, too …_

_"—this is all we can give you," said the dunmer, clutching the precious knife carved from gleaming malachite in his hand, as though he couldn't bear parting ways with it …_

_"gildryn," said his companion, "we can't afford to be sentimental right now—that map is our only hope of finding our way to Skyrim. i know that dagger belonged to your da, but your da's dead now. our families are all gone … all dead … "_

_"not yet," said madras, stroking her bulging chest lovingly. "not yet … "_

_gildryn finally relented, and as She gave him a crudely sketched map of the Velothi range, he pressed the handle of the knife into Her hand, stifling a sob as he surrendered his most valuable treasure—_

Malys felt a terrible chill descending down her spine as the memory emerged from the depths, like some long-forgotten sea monster. Gildryn had traded her a glass dagger for a simple map that turned out to be worthless, and she had given him that map.

_She_ was the reason they were here, the reason they had died for nothing.

_She had doomed them all_.

Her voice was a hoarse whisper. "Oh, Azura help me."

… But where had she found the map? Malys thought amongst her pangs of regret, trying to think of a rational reason to do something so inexplicable. Had she drawn it herself? No—no, surely she couldn't be that callous, to knowingly lead them to their deaths—

_"—Here." She handed the furled piece of parchment to the pregnant elf. "It's an older route, so I'm told, but it should still be there. Most will try for the Rift, or the path west of Blacklight—that's where I'm going … "_

_"Azura smile on you, friend." madras kissed Her on the cheek, and turned to her companion to discuss payment—_

_So close …_

Malys whirled around at the sound—had she been hearing things? It was only a whisper—an echo—but it was _right there_, like it had whispered into her ear. She felt the air freezing inside her lungs, robbing her of breath.

She had to get out of here.

_I'm coming …_

Without any second thoughts, a terrified Malys ran for the ruin, sprinting as fast and for as long as her body was able. She threw aside the golden doors frantically, nearly tripping over her own armored boots as she desperately tried to outrun whatever was coming after her—

_—Her body shook with pleasure as the ashlander shifted his position behind Her, continuing to thrust inside Her without missing a beat while She writhed and moaned; She wished desperately She could repay him in kind, and show him something different, a _better_ kind of pleasure, but an even greater desperation had led Her here—_

The hall opened up into a large atrium, and split off into a number of smaller hallways up ahead. But Malys did not care about them—she had just noticed the objects in the center of the chamber: a pair of armored, golden hands resting on a plinth, reaching skyward as if in prayer to some forgotten god. She gasped in recognition as an image of a carved podium in the Reliquary of Rkund swam into her vision—

_—the ashlander added some finishing touches to the map, and laid it into Her hand as She stripped off her clothing inside the lean-to, giving him a perfect view of Her lithe, supple body; She placed it inside Her pack before the ashlander forced Her on all fours, removing his chitin armor as he did so—_

Suddenly the Dwemer ruin, and the podium in front of her, disappeared from her sight, and an unending deluge of images washed over Malys' mind. Memories long since forgotten appeared in her mind's eye for only the faintest moment of time, only to be replaced by another, equally transitory mental picture.

_What's happening to me?!_

_—She was screaming at the ashlander to ravish her faster … She was almost over the edge, almost ready to come … and then Her neck flared with pain as he bent over and bit Her; it was surprisingly painful for something so brief—_

And then, without warning, Malys felt her face burst open in agony. The pain was intolerable, choking; she could not even scream—and even if she had the option, she never had the time. Her eyes rolled into the back of her skull, her body became limp, and she tumbled to the stone floor at the foot of the pedestal, and her face continued to blaze in torment as darkness clouded her vision, and she knew nothing more …

* * *

she awoke with searing pain in her neck. her body was immobile—she could not even move a finger; she stood spread-eagled in the center of the chamber, arms raised high, eyes front, her paralyzed body forming a large X.

_I _told you_ I remembered_.

malys felt her terror augment another notch. It was _her_. The same voice she had heard outside Rkund … the same Malys that had tortured the bandit called Gjavar.

"What do You want?" she called out. her voice echoed off the walls of the chamber.

_I want _you_. I want you … to remember—remember everything I do._

"Why?" malys shouted. "You and i are not the same. Haven't i told you already? You. Are. Not. me!"

The chamber echoed with an evil laugh. _Oh, but I _am_ you. I've _been_ part of you for two hundred years!_

malys' breath caught in her throat. Two _hundred_ years? But … that meant …

_Yes_. That evil laugh echoed in her ears again, and she felt a brief gust of wind brush her face. _That ashlander was where everything started—and he was only the beginning._

_you were so _desperate_ to find a way out of the hell that Morrowind had become_, not-Malys whispered in a sneer. _So you offered yourself to him … you filthy little_ slut.

malys felt her head twist violently against her will. A stinging pain flared up on her cheek, like a giant palm had just slapped her very hard.

"i am _not_ a slut!" she screamed at not-Malys.

_Tell that to Helviane Desele, you lying_ bitch. her other cheek split apart in agonizing pain once more; that palm had struck her again, and her eyes were burning with tears. _Tell that to all the business you brought to her doorstep. All those happy little people … and it was all thanks to you, _slut_._

_—the dunmer howled as Her horsewhip lashed his naked backside over and over again, and She paused for only a moment to hear his sobbing, his gratitude to Mistress as the bruises blossomed on his body—_

_All those unhappy men you pleased … and even …_

_—the wood elf lay face down on the bed, bound by silken ropes while She planted a knee on her back, thrusting Her fingers inside her most sacred place; another hand kept the bosmer maiden's head against the pillows as she screamed for Mistress to give her more—_

"Stop … "

_they gave themselves to you … and after you were finished with them, their own fingers, their hands … even the real thing just wasn't enough for them anymore …_

"Please stop … "

_—She allowed the argonian to bite her lovingly, gasping at the tiny twinge of pain as his fangs made contact with the nape of Her neck; and then it was his turn to feel the pleasure that came with impending pain, as She pulled out a sharpened dagger and ran the very tip from his groin to his scaly neck, poking just a tiny bit to make him squirm—_

"_Stop it!_"

Not-Malys slapped her again, that invisible palm striking malys hard enough to make stars dance in her eyes.

_Oh, I don't think I will, slut_, the evil voice snarled in her ear. _We're not in your little playground anymore. I'm not going to stop—not _now_, not _ever_. Not until you remember what I do—not until you tell me _what you are!

her tears splattered on the stone, and the sound of her sobbing echoed throughout the dwarven halls as the pain finally subsided. If that was all it took, then there was only one thing she could do.

" … i'm a whore … " she squeaked through the tears, somehow feeling even smaller inside the Dwemer chamber than before.

_What was that?_ Not-Malys' voice was a sibilant hiss.

"i'm a whore."

_Again_, Not-Malys purred.

"i'm a whore!" malys burst out, directing her fury at the malevolence that was and wasn't there. "i'm a slut—a filthy little _slut!_ Is that enough for You?!"

Not-Malys laughed in satisfaction. _I'm glad you're so honest with Me_, she cooed. malys felt the invisible hand stroking her hair. _Such a good little girl_ …

And then it struck her on the base of her skull, harder than ever, and malys closed her eyes instinctively to ward off the pain. She felt her head being pressed downward, forcing her to bend over. _But that's not what I wanted to hear._

malys felt her eyes fluttering open, independent of her will. _I want you to take a look at yourself, slut_, Not-Malys hissed. _I want you to tell me what you see_.

The dunmer had no choice but to obey, and so she focused her vision between her feet.

The podium behind her was surrounded by a circular sheet of golden metal, smooth and cut with geometric, curving patterns. Four thousand years of solitude had not tarnished it in any way; it was a gigantic, flawless mirror.

And what malys saw in her reflection was more horrifying than all the denizens of Tolvald's Cave put together.

It was her face, and yet it _wasn't_. The face she was staring at was the one she had always remembered—to a point. What had been ashy gray skin was now waxy and pale; the nose was flatter, though it didn't feel broken, and her brow was much more angular and pronounced. A large cleft divided her face down the middle from chin to nose.

But most terrifying of all was her gaze. No living man or mer had eyes that glowed as brightly as these—not even the mysterious eyes of Solyn. They burned like dark suns, and felt like they would burst into flame at any moment.

_What _am_ I?!_

malys opened her mouth, intending to ask not-Malys just what in Azura's name had happened to her face, and in doing so unwittingly answered her own question: she stared, transfixed, at the wicked fangs that filled her mouth by the dozen. Then she felt her lips curl up—again against her will—into the evilest smile she'd ever seen.

No.

No. That simply was not possible.

"And yet, here I am," not-Malys crowed triumphantly, now speaking with malys' own voice—colder and nastier than she'd ever believed her voice could be. "Against all possible odds, I have _survived_."

And then it was gone, for only a moment, and malys took the opportunity to get a word in edgewise before that evil presence came back. "But … how?" she whispered. "The priest of Meridia—his blade—he should have killed me!"

"Hah! It would have taken more than Meridia's pitiful magic to force _me_ out," not-Malys gloated. "My own memories were sealed too far inside you for a simple sword to kill the _real_ Malys."

Memories? Sealed? The dunmer's head was spinning every which way at this news.

"Maybe you'd like a taste?"

malys was about to say no, but not-Malys had already begun assaulting her with yet more memories of the life she had once lived. she saw the snowy streets of Windhelm in her mind, and felt a hunger gnawing at her stomach—

_—She held out Her tin, starving and begging desperately for septims, but the nords either ignored her or shoved her out of their path; it had been a slow day today, She had not had company in so long, and She constantly wondered how She had been reduced to this—_

The dunmer felt a stabbing pain in her chest, and resisted the urge to cry out. she did not want to be weak—she did not want to give this monster any sort of satisfaction in her torment—

_—one of Her regulars came up to the slum where She made Her home that night; the nord had brought a companion: a kinsman, whose slick black hair shone in the torchlight. He was not of the city, But She didn't care; She wasted no time in seducing the young, handsome man—_

malys closed her eyes, trying her damnedest to avoid seeing the memories being replayed in her head, but all her efforts were for naught—

_—the black-haired nord overpowered Her at Her highest point of pleasure, at the moment when She was ready to come, and for the second time in her life She felt a stinging sensation in Her neck—_

she stared wild-eyed as this last memory faded from her mind. How had she been bitten _twice_? Did that vampire know she had already been turned long ago? Or—

_—She was unpleasantly roused from Her sleep by all manner of weapons in the hands of dozens of people; every one was pointed at Her, and every face flashed with hatred—_

"No … "

_—"Go back under the ash where you belong!" … "Get away from my children, you gray-skin slut!" …_ _"Gonna run you through like a pig on a spit, filthy elf!"—_

she wished desperately that she would just curl up and die right now—she did not want to relive that night; she cried out silently, wishing for something, anything but the hour when her life had turned into hell—

_—How long She ran, She did not know; Her legs carried her out of the slums, out of the city, and westward along the frozen River White, all the way to Lake Yorgrim. Only then did she stop to catch her breath, only when the signs and sounds of the angry mob had faded away to nothing—_

"he didn't know you'd already been turned," not-Malys sneered in her voice, taking obvious joy in belittling malys as much as She could. "But he didn't care. Once he'd defiled you even more, he threw you to the wolves like a dirty washrag. you were _nothing_ to him … just another means to an end—"

_—There was a cave nearby, a refuge for animals from the snowstorms that constantly buffeted this region of Skyrim; it was empty now, unoccupied … the perfect place for her to hide—_

"But you did more than hide from those bad boys and girls," not-Malys crooned, almost congratulatory in Her delivery. "you _lived_. you survived on the barest scraps. Then, you _slept_. And _then_ … you were transformed."

malys didn't want to believe Her; she tried convincing himself that not-Malys was somehow lying to her—and yet she could _feel_ the truth in Her words. But, if not-Malys was indeed the truth, then why, she wondered, had she not discovered this sooner? Why hadn't that magic sword, Dawnbreaker, worked on her at Rkund? _Why?!_

But for all the questions in her turbulent mind, the fact of the matter was still frightfully clear.

_Vampire_.

_i'm a vampire_.

"No," smirked not-Malys. "_I'm_ a vampire. _You're_ just a mistake—a story that should never have been told. You should _never_ have happened. _malys aryon of house hlaalu_ was simply never meant to exist for this long."

Her—malys'—smile grew wider. "And I will make sure of that."

malys suddenly felt an iron vise tighten around her throat; her own hand had latched onto her neck of its own accord. Then the hand _squeezed_ around her windpipe, and she began gagging for breath.

_If I kill you, we both die_, said not-Malys matter-of-factly as she strangled malys with her own arm. _But if I can make you weak enough, then I won't have to worry about any more … rude interruptions for a _very_ long time_.

malys tried to beg for not-Malys to stop, but the words would not come out. her limbs would still not move.

_That's it, _not-Malys cooed as the dunmer continued to throttle herself_. Don't try to fight it. Just let it happen, and I promise it'll be over before you know it._

Only then did it sink in for malys. she was helpless—lost and alone inside one of the forgotten places of the world.

No one knew she was here.

No one was going to save her.

And as that one final truth hit her, as her vision began to turn gray, malys finally resigned herself to her fate. she would die here, in this forsaken ruin, and Vinye, Cosette, and everyone inside the College would be none the wiser.

The last thing she heard before darkness consumed her forever was not-Malys crooning gently in her ear.

_Good girl …_

For the last time, malys aryon of house hlaalu went to sleep.

And after nearly two centuries of slumber, Mistress Malys awoke.

* * *

She clambered to Her feet uneasily, and took several gulping breaths of the stale air inside the ruin. Her undead body was more powerful now that the seal had been broken, but all the time She'd spent sleeping away the years had not been kind to Her health. She stretched Her arms and legs out for a long while, testing out the flexibility of Her joints; then, when She judged Herself ready at last, She turned to the armored gauntlets behind Her.

Of all of Kagrenac's Tools, Wraithguard was perhaps the most mysterious. No one had ever really agreed on what it looked like—or even if it was only the one gauntlet. Now, however, as Mistress Malys slipped the armor over her hands, it looked as though those questions had finally been answered.

To Her slight annoyance, though, only the right gauntlet appeared to be enchanted. The left was only a look-alike; it was meticulously crafted all the same, but little more than the blacksmith's equivalent of Wraithguard's bastard son.

As Malys finished equipping the gauntlets, something rumbled within the ruin, and there was a shriek of metal against metal as several gates around the chamber burst open. An enormous centurion stepped out from each one—but these were vastly different than the automata inside the Reliquary; these centurions looked more like the guardians of the ruins that had once dotted Vvardenfell. Their right arm ended in a spiked ball, almost as big around as she was tall; their left arm, a heavy, three-fingered claw.

It wasn't long before the two golems noticed Malys standing there. One of them promptly charged, raising its claw high as if to swat Her away, while the other hefted its mace. There was a burst of steam from its shoulder, and the heavy metal sphere launched itself at Her like an arrow from a bow, connected by a thick length of golden chain.

Malys dodged the attacks easily, and she noted with pleasant surprise that the physical prowess of Her body had been amplified significantly; She was faster now, stronger—but by how much was a question yet to be answered.

She concealed a smirk as the twin Dwemer titans prepared another attack—they would be the perfect benchmark.

Both centurions fired their flails this time; they swept them back and forth, destroying the stone columns around the chamber and tearing holes in the wall and the floor. Several times, they came within inches of crushing Her.

She fired one ice spike after another at the centurions, though only for effect—the golems were resistant to all manner of magic, but frost most of all. However, these centurions were not as well armored as the guardians found in the ruins of Skyrim. They were slightly faster and more maneuverable, but their joints and inner workings were also more exposed, and therefore more susceptible to damage—both physical and magical.

So it came as another surprise that one of Her errant spikes, by sheer luck, had lodged itself inside the neck of one of the golems. The construct plucked it out with its claw, but the ice had punched a sizable hole in the machinery in the process. Steam and oil leaked from the hole like blood, and the disabled centurion crashed to the floor.

The remaining centurion swiped at Her with both of its heavy arms, but Malys was too small, too agile—and thanks to the newly awakened abilities of her vampiric body, it didn't even feel like She was wearing armor anymore.

But She was still weaker than She had any right to be. She needed more strength—two hundred years of sleeping within that pitiful mind had drained Her severely. Perhaps this last centurion would be a willing feast …

She reached out with her mind, and listened for echoes within the casing of the centurion. It was common knowledge that the dwemer were masters of enchanting, and they found uses for soul gems that other races could not even begin to grasp, even today. She thought briefly of the falmer, and wondered how many of their souls had been consumed to fuel the machinations of the dwarves.

Within moments Malys found what She was listening for—a faint, tinny screaming, as if a very tiny creature was being tortured day and night without end. She focused Her concentration on that voice, and subconsciously raised Her hand. Vivid, poisonous red tendrils erupted from Her fingers, reaching inside the soul gem housed inside the centurion—its own imitation of a brain and a heart at the same time—and _pulled_.

The trapped soul screamed as Malys extricated it with Her newfound magic, the tether of energy disintegrating the essence of both it and the automaton it had been powering. The screams faded away, and the golden metal crumpled and corroded as She absorbed the soul into Her own body; She did not dare to waste any of that energy, and so She took it all into Herself, restoring a little more of the strength She had lost during Her long slumber.

Then She stood there for a little while longer, admiring the scrap metal that had once been the two guardians of this nameless ruin, and idly flexing Her armored fingers, taking in the view of Wraithguard from every angle. She did not even care that another of kagrenac's ancient tools was in her possession—the chance encounter of that doomed caravan had been fate, surely. She was destined to come _here_, destined to wake up once again.

Destined to be stronger.

But the essence of the soul inside the centurion had not been enough, Mistress Malys knew. She needed more.

Her only hope was that there would be enough falmer between her and Winterhold to sate Her appetite.

Malys set out from the dwemer ruin, then, in search of more falmer to feed upon. She hoped that would give them some closure after the hell the dwemer had put them through for centuries, and the thousands of years they'd had to fend for themselves in the wake of their disappearance.

they would die, of course—but surely if they were sentient, they would agree that death would be the better option.

She stopped for only a while to strip the caravans, the chests they had carried, and their long-dead guardians of all their worldly gold and belongings; one of the chests carried a flowing black robe, and Malys donned it over Her damaged armor. She could sense the strength of the enchantment woven into the individual threads, how it enriched the natural restoration of Her magickal reserves—or was that merely yet another byproduct of Her vampiric powers?

There were more falmer, more than She had yet encountered before, in the caves beyond the ruined convoy. Malys wasted no time in slaughtering them all—She had nothing to fear from them anymore. She understood now why they could not hear Her, or smell Her—or even why their poison had no effect on Her body. The vampires were creatures of the night; some could even become one with the shadows to avoid detection. They were not among the living, but neither were they dead; the falmer, in spite of their superhuman senses, had become too primitive to understand the fine line that separated the two.

And finally, their poisoned blades hacked and slashed away at Her, only for Malys to heal them without any adverse reaction to the foul agents. Because She was undead, Her blood did not circulate as in a normal, living body, and therefore could not spread the poison to the rest of Her system. All it could do was sit there, mixing with Her blood until the wound was healed. However, Her blood could not replenish itself naturally—and normal healing spells could only go so far. Even Her vampire magic—devastating as it was against the falmer—wasn't a perfect solution.

There was only one real solution to that problem—and She seized Her opportunity as a supercharged ice spike thudded into a falmer's shoulders and staggered him. Malys pounced on him, holding his pulped shoulder in one hand, and his head in the other—and without a second thought, She sank Her fangs into the falmer's neck.

The cave-elf shrieked incoherently as Her teeth punctured through his wrinkled flesh with impunity. The blood tasted sour, and Malys almost spat it out then and there—but She needed to reclaim her strength at any cost. If the falmer had even one sliver of sentience left in their mutated bodies, then that blood, however disgusting it tasted, would bring Her that much closer to full strength.

And sure enough, She felt a warm, pleasant sensation flowing through Her body, slowly but surely—like a roaring hearth in liquid form, but ten times more satisfying. She closed her jaws tighter shut, making sure to drain every last drop of blood, moaning a little in satisfaction as the warmth of the falmer's blood spread throughout Her system.

The other falmer backed away at this brutal show of force. Their fight-or-flight responses kicked in only moments too late; Malys, newly rejuvenated from drinking Her fill, shoved aside the dead husk that had been Her first meal in two hundred years, and eradicated the four remaining creatures in less than a minute—two with the same ice spike.

She meandered through the tight passages of the cave without pausing to savor her victory. She was very close now—she could feel it—the outside world was within her grasp, and she would finally see Skyrim once again.

Eventually, one more cave lay before Her—several falmer tents occupied the space, surrounding a dwemer bridge that spanned a fast-flowing stream. The rush of water was deafening—but soft enough that Malys heard the clicking of the chaurus' pincers a split second before She actually saw it from across the rapids.

The chaurus was huge—easily the size of a young horse, it stood as high as the heavily armored falmer that flanked it, and it was over twice as large as the bugs She'd shattered with Her frost magic. It was oblivious to Malys' presence; currently, it was crouched next to the largest tent in the cave, tearing into the remains of a body.

A body covered in suspiciously spiky armor.

Malys felt a lead weight drop into Her stomach as the mystery of gadriath's disappearance was finally solved. This giant chaurus had somehow snuck in from that chasm above Her in that one cave, snapped him up in its jaws, and retreated back into its lair without a sound. She couldn't help but feel a shudder of horrified shock: She had come very close to dying in that cave, and by something She couldn't even see coming, no less! And that _scared_ Her—because She didn't know if being a vampire would have made the difference in avoiding that chaurus, or even killing it then and there. To creatures like those, food was food, living _or_ dead.

The feeling passed soon enough, though; that was then, and this was now—and now that Malys could see what She was dealing with, She had a plan for how to deal with this monstrous insect.

She strode onto the dwarven causeway, and clenched Her fists to form the same icy arm-blades She'd utilized earlier. Only one falmer guarded this end of the bridge, but the only trouble he presented to Malys was his spine; the Dunmer beheaded him with both blades, crossing and uncrossing them across his neck like a giant pair of shears. Black blood spattered everywhere, and ran into the rapids. The chaurus must have sensed the blood somehow, whether by scent or by some form of taste, as it immediately lumbered across the bridge—straight for Malys.

The vampire was ready. Shattering Her ice blades by tightening Her fists, Malys called on every last ounce of Her strength, and—right as the insect opened its jaws wide enough to grip a wagon wheel—She reached out, and _grabbed_ the chaurus by its pincers, one in each hand. The giant bug screeched and clicked, and flailed about like a worm caught by a bird, but Malys held on for dear life. She had little to fear from the chaurus now that it was trapped; Wraithguard protected Her from the sharp pincers, while Her vampirism protected Her from its poison.

There were still the two remaining falmer, though, and they would have to have been blind _and_ deaf to not notice what was going on. She saw both of them coming towards Her, intent on killing Her while She grappled with the chaurus. One of them was a shaman, judging from the cloak of blue lightning surrounding her body.

With a loud war cry, Mistress Malys heaved and twisted Her body, physically lifting the chaurus off its four spiky legs. She hefted the protesting beast in both hands like a giant flail, and slammed it sideways into the falmer chieftain with an adrenaline-fueled roar. The armored cave-elf was swatted aside, and he hit the cave wall spread-eagled with a shriek of surprise and pain. Her second swing came from above, and physically crushed the falmer shaman into pulp beneath the chaurus' spiky mass. The repulsive bug screeched in agony as the still-electrified remains of the shaman roasted it alive.

The falmer chieftain, meanwhile, had managed to recover from the shock of being bulled off a bridge by his own pet, and he now clutched a heavy, curved axe in his claw, growling at Malys and slashing wildly. He was clearly still addled in his mind, whether from anger or injury; all his attacks were hitting nothing but air—but the movements were so fast and unpredictable that they actually ended up deflecting most of Malys' ice spikes out of sheer luck, which annoyed Her to no end.

After about five shards bouncing off either the falmer's axe or his armor in rapid succession, the Dunmer had had enough. She charged another ice storm in both her hands, and released it just as the falmer leapt to strike at her. The chieftain was flash-frozen in midair, armor and all, and shattered into pieces as he hit the bridge.

But though Malys was finally victorious, Her thoughts could not be further away from victory. As the adrenaline rush from the battle finally wore off, She crossed over to the mangled body of the bosmer, kneeling at his side, and gently stroking what little unspoiled flesh was left.

gadriath had been so horribly mutilated that only his armor gave him away; his face in particular was so badly shredded it was virtually unrecognizable. One arm was simply _gone_, his right leg was nothing but a crushed mass of flesh and bone, and large chunks of his torso had been physically ripped out by the chaurus' pincers.

Malys regarded gadriath's body for a few moments longer before She repositioned the arms and legs, and tilted his head only a little. She then searched for any sort of linen or cloth; none were available that were clean enough, but there were several burlap sacks scattered around the area. She emptied their contents, and split their seams, turning them into long, unwrapped pieces of burlap; She laid these over gadriath, covering him head to foot in the sackcloth.

She had only known the bosmer for just this one day, and had merely taken him along on a passing whim. The old Malys might have blamed herself for this, and insisted that if she hadn't been so impulsive, this would never have happened. But the old Malys was gone now—She knew there was no use blaming anyone for an event that neither of them could ever have foreseen.

And yet, She still felt a pang of regret. She knew nothing about bosmer burial customs—and so she whispered a brief prayer to Azura, asking her to intercede for the slain mercenary. Hopefully, it would suffice.

At length, She finally stood up from gadriath's covered corpse, and made her way out of Tolvald's Cave—to Shor's Stone, to Whiterun, and to her fellow classmates. There would be no other eulogy, nor would there be any other marker or tomb to commemorate the bosmer's memory—there was only a tacitly spoken, but no less wholehearted,

"Farewell, Gadriath."

* * *

_Outskirts of Whiterun_

_Two nights later_

Mistress Malys dismounted from the carriage with a spring in Her step that She had not felt in a long time—perhaps even before the night She had first been turned. She had slept while the sun was out—covering Her body under Her black robe to protect against its rays, leaving Her more fit and alert during the night. It was early evening; the sun had just disappeared behind the mountains, and She felt a sort of surge within her body as the last bit of light disappeared below the horizon.

After leaving Tolvald's Cave, she'd made her way back to Shor's Stone, intent on selling as much as she could—even with her vampiric strength, lugging around so much treasure took its toll on her physique. But the blacksmith hadn't cared for most of her trinkets, and so she'd trudged south to Riften in broad daylight, as laden as she'd come. By the time She'd boarded a carriage, She had nearly dropped dead from sheer exhaustion, and only just now—after sleeping for most of the journey from Riften, excepting a very rare side of venison in Ivarstead for her lunch—had She been able to fully regain Her strength.

She looked up at the city of Whiterun, growing bigger and bigger with every step she took. The walls of this city had once been imposing fortifications indeed, towering dozens of feet above the plains. But its history of harsh winters and bandit attacks—to say nothing of the Stormcloak rebellion at the turn of the century—had left it a shadow of its former glory. Still, even a shadow could still inspire some measure of pride and fear, Malys knew, and many Nords still viewed this city with pride—and Whiterun's walls still stood high enough to inspire fear in all but the bravest of thugs.

Malys felt only a little uneasy as She crossed the drawbridge leading to the gate. This wasn't Windhelm, but now that her memories were wholly restored again, she still felt like they were looking at her out of the corner of her eye, as if they, too, knew the truth behind the Dunmer striding past them.

As She approached the gate, one of the guards took a few steps towards Her. "You there!" he called out.

Malys froze at the guard's no-nonsense tone. "What is it?" she said uneasily.

"You're that dark elf from the College," said the guard. It was not a question. "Someone's been wanting to speak to you inside. Go on in, but keep your wits about you, or Dragonsreach dungeon will be the last thing you ever see."

He stepped aside, leaving a confused Malys to force open the wooden gate to Whiterun. _Who wants to talk to_ Me?!

Her answer waited in the street before Her, leaning alongside the house of the town blacksmith. When the cloaked figure noticed Malys making Her way into Whiterun proper, she strode forward, purpose in every step—

—and fired a blinding lightning bolt that exploded mere inches away from Malys' boots. The Dunmer leapt back with a cry, and several nearby guards brought hands to arms.

"_What in Dagon's name is your prob—?!_" Malys started to shout heatedly, but Her voice faltered when the figure lowered her hood, and revealed her face.

"vinye?" Malys was so confounded She forgot to be angry. "you'd better have a good reason … for … "

Malys trailed off as the high elf marched up to Her, and only then did the Dunmer see how _angry_ vinye was. The expression on her olive face looked more severe than ever, and her vivid green eyes sparked with rage.

"You have not been honest with me, _Malys Aryon of House Hlaalu_," vinye snarled, an uncharacteristic sneer on her face as she emphasized the name with venomous fury. "You _lied_ to me.

"Now tell me the truth, _right now_ … or I will kill you where you stand."

* * *

_Next chapter: Things come to a head in Whiterun, and blood will be spilled before the day is done._


	10. IX

IX

Years ago, Whiterun had been the site for one of the bloodiest battles of the Stormcloak Rebellion. Nearly half its guard had died, along with many soldiers on both sides. Jarl Balgruuf the Greater had been deposed, and Vignar Gray-Mane, patriarch to that influential clan, had taken his place.

All this Vinye knew. But she had never visited Whiterun before since crossing the border into Skyrim, and therefore had felt a moment of despair when she saw the ruined fortifications of the city. Only when the carriage driver had reminded her that the city had yet to fully recover from the effects of the rebellion did she manage to calm herself.

_I'm not too late after all_, she had thought, thanking the gods. _I can still stop this!_

She had gone to the Bannered Mare, and rented one of their rooms for several days. And then, Vinye had simply waited for the contingent of Stormcloaks that made up the new town guard to let her know when a certain dark elf made her way up to the city.

Now, barely twenty-four hours later, as she saw that certain dark elf make her way inside the city limits, the Altmer reviewed the contents of the letter Urag had given her one more time.

Vinye did not like being lied to. But it was good to finally put a face to that lie—to the hatred she felt for being played like a child.

"Vinye?" she heard the Dunmer say in surprise and anger—having a lightning bolt missing someone by inches tended to produce those emotions in people. "You'd better have a good reason … for … "

Vinye ignored the agitated shouts of the Stormcloaks nearby as she marched up to Malys, her face stony.

"You have not been honest with me, _Malys Aryon of House Hlaalu_," the Altmer spat, preparing another lightning bolt. "You _lied_ to me. Now tell me the truth _right now_—or I will kill you where you stand."

To her slight surprise, Malys wilted a little in the face of her aggression. "Not here," she said softly; Vinye had to strain to hear her words. The Dunmer looked around furtively at the guards and the growing crowd. "Let's go somewhere else. I've already started one riot in my time—once was enough."

And she pushed herself away from Vinye, who was left to mutter some nonsense about College business and where the passersby could shove their collective nose regarding that business before walking along in her wake, eventually overtaking her and leading Malys to the Bannered Mare.

The inn was quiet, but the sun had set, and soon they would be getting the usual influx of business that came with the nightlife of any city. Only half a dozen people, not including Hulda the bartender, occupied the space around the fire, while a pretty young bard with blonde hair stroked the opening bars of "Tale of the Tongues" on her lute.

Only when Vinye had taken Malys to her room overlooking the bar, and closed the door, did she deem it necessary to resume their conversation. "So," she said tonelessly. "Are you going to tell me your real name now, or should I just send for the guard, have you arrested, and save us both some trouble on the process?"

The Dunmer frowned. "My _name_ is Malys," she said stubbornly, as if it was the simplest fact in the world.

Vinye growled under her breath, and produced the letter Urag had given her. "Read it to me," she said coldly.

Malys took the letter, and repeated the thin, spidery handwriting on the parchment:

_Urag,_

_Before I begin, I want you to know how difficult it was to get this information. Indeed, were it not for Brelyna's apprenticeship under Master Neloth, we wouldn't be having this conversation. Even then … Neloth is many things, but how he is still alive—let alone still a member of House Telvanni—is beyond my skill to comprehend. At any rate, after Brelyna cleaned up one of his "experiments gone wrong", as he so callously referred to her, he became more willing, albeit grudgingly, to aid me with this task._

_For all his faults, Neloth is a far more accomplished mystic than I; where my scryes could only reach the recent past and near future, his capacity for divination spans entire centuries, going back to the time of the Red Year. With this, he was able to contact the ancestor spirits of the Dunmer per your request, and what he told me is most disturbing._

_Firstly, the matter of this Malys Aryon: There was an elf with that name who did indeed belong to House Hlaalu; however, she was last sighted in Blacklight two hundred years ago, fleeing the eruption of Vvardenfell. I would advise you and the rest of the staff to keep a close eye on her at all times, as I suspect this name may be an alias._

_Secondly, the matter of this wizard called Solyn—_

Vinye snatched the paper away from Malys before she could read any further. Now wasn't the time for _that_.

The Dunmer made as if to protest, but the crackling arcs of lightning around Vinye's fingers silenced her quickly, and she sat back down in her seat.

"Two hundred years," Vinye repeated, in a voice that could dissolve ebony. She did not lower her electrified hand. "And yet you don't look a day over twenty. Even high elves don't get so lucky to look so young."

She grabbed Malys by the hand, and flinched almost as soon as she touched the flesh. "You're cold," she said in a hushed voice. "Very cold—a fool might even say you were as _cold as the grave_."

She saw Malys swallow visibly at her choice of words, and as she concealed a smirk, Vinye played her last card.

"So, _Malys Aryon_ … how long have you been a vampire?"

Malys' eyes widened, but only a little, and the tips of her mouth curled in a wry smile. "Well, one of you lot had to figure it out sooner or later," she said, and then she grinned. "I'm just glad you were the one I had to beat to it."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Vinye said smugly. "I had my suspicions about you even before that priest found us at Rkund. I knew something was off ever since that lesson with Tolfdir—the night we first met, when you told me your name. But I never had the evidence to prove it—until I got this letter."

The façade broke for only an instant, and then Malys was as unflappable as ever, but Vinye knew she'd hit a nerve, and so she continued, "After the Oblivion Crisis, House Hlaalu fell out of favor with the other Great Houses of Morrowind. Then, after the Red Year and the Argonian invasion, the other Houses hated them so much that they lost their rank, their standing, and all it implied—including their seat at the Grand Council. No self-respecting Dunmer would ever call herself a part of House Hlaalu after all that—_unless_."

Vinye paused. She had enjoyed watching the effects of her words dissect Malys with a savage pleasure—watching her carefully constructed disguise fall to pieces at the onslaught of her research—of cold, hard facts, of _truth_. But the longer she looked at the Dunmer, the more she noticed how confused Malys looked. There wasn't a trace of fear to be found; instead, there was—was it confusion, relief? Vinye couldn't be sure. And there was something else …

"—unless you genuinely didn't know," she finished, her voice trailing off. Now Vinye was the one feeling confused; even as she finished speaking, she already knew that hypothesis couldn't possibly make sense. How could someone forget the moment they crossed over from the realm of the living to that of the dead?

Malys sighed. "There's a lot I don't know," she replied. "But I'm trying to piece everything back together as best I can. I might tell you about it later on, if I think you've earned the right—I can tell you the process wasn't quick or painless. And there's one other thing I think you ought to know about me."

She rose from her seat, and even though Vinye was still a head taller than she was, the Altmer couldn't help but feel intimidated by Malys' glowing red eyes.

"I didn't get only the one bite," Malys smirked. The air in the room felt like it was growing colder with every word she spoke. "I was bitten _twice_—by completely different vampires. Their infections battled inside my body—and it nearly tore me apart. I had to sleep for a long time, but it was risky—two hundred years, I had plenty of chances to just give up and die. But I didn't—and look at what it's made me into."

Malys showed her newly pointed teeth in a wide smile, and Vinye tried not to look at them, instead staring back into those infernal glowing eyes while she mulled those words uneasily. _Two vampires? Two attacks?_

"Look at me, Vinye," Malys repeated. "I'm a completely new generation of vampire—the likes of which Tamriel has never seen before." Her smile grew wider. "And right now, I'm feeling _hungry_."

Lightning wrapped around both of Vinye's hands now, and she thrust them both at Malys, prepared to open fire. She had already witnessed the destruction of one city in her lifetime—Vinye was not about to stand by and allow another town to die, not after she'd come so far that she was staring the source of all that potential ruin in the face.

But to her surprise, though, Malys hadn't even batted an eye, merely watching her reaction with a casual, detached amusement. "That's it," she smirked. "Show me that fear. Like a skeever with nowhere to run and hide."

Vinye growled softly as Malys walked up to her, and her hands tensed further, ready to blast this creature apart with an entire storm's worth of lightning if need be.

Malys was now so close to her that her forehead was very nearly touching Vinye's sizzling palm. "You hate me, don't you, Vinye? People fear what they don't understand, and they despise it—they deny it exists for as long as they can. But I know you're better than that … you know that denial's only the first step to something _better_."

Her voice became softer, and Malys now whispered to Vinye as if to a lover. "You once told me you'd give your life to show Tamriel the _truth_," she said calmly. "But you never told me if you were prepared to do just that."

And Malys—her eyes reflecting the sparks dancing on Vinye's arms—relaxed. Her smile was now as warm as her undead body was cold. "Well, the truth's out now, Vinye—it's up to you to spread the word. Tell the world what I am, what I could be. Maybe when this is all said and done, you can even publish a book on me."

She took Vinye's hand, still writhing with energy, and placed it gently on her brow. "All you have to do is kill me."

Those eight little words hit the high elf like a kick to the stomach. Malys' monologue had started a chain of images in Vinye's mind, and now she could see herself standing triumphant, resolute of this vampire's broken, smoldering body; she saw the combined assemblage of the Synod and the College of Whispers, united after two centuries within the Arcane University at her request, as she told them of her findings in Raldbthar, of the long-lost Falmer and their new culture under the mountains of Skyrim.

And then Vinye saw herself talking about the one vampire she had killed; the shifting, faceless masses in her mind—once merely showing interest—were now outright ecstatic; they bombarded her with questions about this new breed of vampire: how strong was she, what were her capabilities, and on and on and on—

… And it _sickened_ her.

_Do it_, a little voice whispered in her head. _Tamriel will be all the safer, and they'll have you to thank for it_.

_I trusted her_, Vinye thought angrily. _I called her my _friend!

_She's a threat!_ hissed the voice. _If the Synod or the College knew you'd let this one chance get away, they'd never let you back in again._

But was it worth it to go back now?

Vinye looked at Malys again; the Dunmer had closed her eyes, though had not squeezed them shut. She actually looked quite peaceful, the Altmer thought. If she unfocused her eyes, she could almost believe Malys wasn't a vampire right now.

And then, a familiar voice echoed in her mind, speaking words that had only been spoken a short time ago, but the cap between then and now felt like an eternity: _"The day the truth you've been following finally comes out … is the day when scholars like you won't have any place in Tamriel anymore … "_

That was enough to sway Vinye.

She unclenched her fingers, and the blue glow of lightning slowly faded from her hands.

Malys slowly opened her eyes as the sizzling noise died, and smiled at Vinye's expression. "_Good girl_," she said.

Vinye sensed the veil in the compliment—and suspected Malys had played her yet again—but did not comment on either. "Being good had nothing to do with it, Malys," she said bluntly. "I've told you about the people I had to deal with when I studied magic in Cyrodiil—their double-crossing, their fabrications and lies. If I'd killed you, I'd have murdered a colleague—danger to the world be damned. And I wouldn't be any better then _them_."

She sighed. "And there's one other thing. I remember what you told me, that night in the Arcaneum—and you're wrong. Tamriel will _always_ need scholars, Malys—even after all the secrets in the world are nothing more than common knowledge. After all, _someone_ has to make sure we don't forget the truth—that elves and men alike can learn from their mistakes."

She perched herself on the bedspread. The words were floating up her throat now, and she felt a heavy weight lift from her shoulders as she mentally steeled herself. Malys had just revealed herself as a vampire; it was only fair that Vinye told her about her brief life as a justiciar. "And while we're on the subject of the truth," she said, after taking a long breath, "I should probably say I haven't been entirely honest about myself, either."

Malys looked only slightly intrigued as she sat back down, ready to hear Vinye's confession—when suddenly the noises from the bar down below intensified slightly in volume.

Malys heard the change in tone as well, and frowned. "Voices," she said. "They sound angry, too."

"Maybe Cosette's here," Vinye remarked—but only in jest. None of the voices sounded like they belonged to the tiny Breton girl. Given what Vinye had seen of Cosette's temper, however … "We should probably go downstairs."

She pointed a slim finger at Malys. "But don't think we're done talking," she said menacingly. "That's the only warning I'm ever going to give you, Malys. If you give me even one little reason to believe you're a danger to _anyone_, then I will make you wish that priest of Meridia had killed you when he had the chance."

And she opened the door, indicating Malys ought to leave first; Vinye would follow, and keep an eye on her from a safe point. While the high elf was inwardly breathing a sigh of relief that the danger appeared to have passed, she still wasn't going to take any chances. There wouldn't be any mead for her tonight—if she had to sleep with one eye open tonight, she would keep this vampire under a tight watch.

* * *

When the two mages made their way down, however, they were surprised to see Cosette was nowhere in sight. The cause of the commotion had instead come from three strange men—clad head-to-toe in dirty brown armor that Vinye had never seen before. One of them was arguing with Hulda, whose face was brick red and livid with fury.

"What gives you the right to barge in my inn?!" the bartender shouted at the tallest of the trio, who Vinye assumed was the leader.

"We have authority that even your High King cannot dispute," said the tall man. Vinye caught the rough accent of a dark elf, and saw something clutched in his hand. "We're looking for someone, and we know she's here."

Vinye noticed someone sidle behind her. She turned her head, and saw Malys behind and to her right; her eyes looked fearful, and Vinye couldn't blame her—this looked like it was about to turn nasty.

"I don't care who you're looking for," Hulda snarled at them. "You're not in Morrowind anymore. This is Skyrim—and we know how to deal with outsiders who don't respect our laws."

Suddenly, Vinye caught a shift of movement out of the corner of her eye, this time off to her left. The pretty young bard was edging toward them, clutching her lute so tightly that the Altmer could see her fingernails leaving marks in the wood. A cowl covered her eyes, and though Vinye couldn't see them, she guessed they betrayed just as much fear as Malys was. She nodded to the Dunmer, indicating the bard. Wordlessly, they slowly moved toward her.

The tall elf grunted harshly, and suddenly all three men were bristling with elven weaponry. At once, everyone else inside the bar leapt to their feet, unsheathing swords and axes with a clamor of steel and angry oaths.

"Find her!" said the elf, above all the commotion. The two elves either side of him moved away, fanning out across the inn.

And then quite a few things happened. First, Vinye felt a small _whiff_ of air close by her left ear. A second later, the armored figure nearest them coughed slightly, and pulled something small out of his chest.

One second after that, he toppled to the floor of the bar, dead.

The patrons of the inn fell silent at this, and Vinye noticed—with an increasingly unsettling feeling in her stomach—that they were all looking at her.

"Um," she said her mouth suddenly feeling very dry.

"There she is!" cried the elf, pointing at the mages. "_Take her!_"

In the ensuing commotion, Vinye wildly thought _What did _I_ do?! _while charging up her lightning and preparing for a fight. But at the same time, the bard had shoved them aside and leapt into the fray, brandishing her lute like a—

_Wait_.

Vinye closed her eyes, and opened them again. No, she wasn't seeing things—the lute wasn't a lute anymore. The two struts on both sides of the bridge had been pulled forwards and outwards, spread like wings, and the Altmer saw a short, thick cord connecting the two ends at a near-right angle. The bard hefted this strange object with the headstock resting on her shoulder, her fingers resting between the strings.

Malys was completely nonplussed. "Is … that a _crossbow_?"

The bard's fingers _twitched_, and the thick cord _jumped_. Vinye saw a small, thin projectile resting on the neck of the lute for only a moment. Then it was _gone_, and a second armored assailant screamed, clutching at his chest as he too collapsed against the counter, rapidly surrounded in a growing pool of his own blood.

The tall elf growled in annoyance as he saw his comrades lying around him, dead as doornails. "Damn it!" he snarled at the bard. "I'll split you like—"

The Dunmer never got to say exactly what he was going to split the maiden like: in the time it took for him to make that threat, the bard had nocked another bolt on her crossbow, pointed it at the elf, and let fly with a loud _twang_. The bolt lodged itself in his throat, and his last curse ended in a pathetic noise that sounded a bit like "_gahkk_."

Silence fell over the Bannered Mare as the elf finally expired. No one dared to speak or make a sound as the bard lowered her makeshift weapon, crossed the length of the bar, and pulled out a large coin purse. She scribbled something on the bulging sack, and passed it to Hulda. The bartender picked up the purse, frowned as she peered inside it, before eventually placing it inside her apron with a grunt.

Hulda glared at her speechless customers. "Well, what are you staring at?" she growled icily. "Someone find Andurs and tell him we got three more for Arkay. Uthgerd, take the trash out back. I just had this place cleaned up, and I don't want it stunk up again 'cause of a few bodies. Come on, then—get them out of my sight!"

A burly female clad in plate armor rose from her seat with a grunt, and heaved all three bodies over her shoulder like sacks of flour as she made for the door—but not before Malys had sorted through their belongings and found a sealed scroll on the one elf. She opened it up, and what little color remained in her waxy face drained.

She read out loud, "'Honorable Writ of Execution: Rolega the Quiet.

'The slain personage before you has been marked for execution as a member of an unlawful guild … blah blah blah … of the _Morag Tong?!_" Malys' voice rose in incredulity as she finished reading the document. "The Bearer of this non-disputable document has official sanctioned license to kill the afore-mentioned personage.'"

At the words "Morag Tong," a collective shiver had gone around the bar, and Vinye felt her spine prickle as she recalled where she'd heard the words before. _The Morag Tong … the war in Riften … Maven Black-Briar …_

Hulda groaned. "That does it," she groused. "First those mercenaries from Hammerfell, then that stuffed-shirt Imperial, and now a bunch of assassins from Morrowind! I'll have Sinmir's head for this—he knows what it's like in here; drunkards, brawls, and fights, and still he won't listen to me! If I have to go straight to Jarl Vignar … "

While Hulda continued her ranting and raving, the other patrons of the inn had gradually resumed their business. Malys and Vinye, meanwhile, sat down at a relatively secluded table to try and calm their racing hearts. Neither of them had been to a bar before, never mind a bar fight, and so neither of them had anything to say at first—instead choosing to slump in their seats in relief, as if to say, "Well—that just happened."

A dainty hand thumped down between them, clutching a cowl, a wad of parchment, and a mass of blonde hair. The two mages turned around to see the bard with the deadly lute sitting down in the chair between them. The blonde hair was nothing more than a wig, and had concealed a considerable amount of shiny black hair.

Now that Vinye had a closer look at her, the bard didn't look so pretty. She was a Nord, with a face was almost as well maintained as her hair, but it was also very pale and gaunt—like it had been carved from weathered white marble. Her body looked smooth, her skin soft but taut over deceptively spindly arms. It was the eyes, however, that made Vinye feel especially anxious. They were deep-set above her high cheekbones, and caked in thick black makeup. By some unknown jest of nature, the eyes themselves were also black as night; Vinye had the impression she was staring back at a skull.

Again, she pardoned her Cyrodiilic—but this was the _creepiest_ Nord she'd ever laid eyes upon.

The would-be bard now clutched a quill, its tip wet with ink. She scrawled something on the parchment before her, and tapped it with her quill—indicating they should both read it.

_Sorry for trouble_, it said in an untidy cursive. _Damn Tong never forget face—years, chasing me._

Malys cocked an eyebrow as she deciphered the writing. "So you're Rolega the Quiet, then?"

A nod. "Why do they call you that?" Vinye asked inquisitively. The Nords loved their monikers and nicknames, it was true—but they were anything but quiet.

Rolega put quill to parchment again. _Wolf attack. Falkreath_, she scrawled. _Little girl_. She inclined her head slightly, and both mages winced as they saw the horrible scar that slashed across her neck at a diagonal.

_Not so bad_, Rolega continued writing with a shrug. _Can talk still. Painful. Only whisper_. She paused briefly to dip her quill in an inkwell. _Voices quicker, but change. Quill, ink better. Writing forever. Reliable. Better business_.

It was very difficult for Vinye to read the terse, fragmented tone of the writing. From what she could understand, Rolega believed in the power of the written word; stories told through oral tradition were subject to change, Vinye knew, and thus the truth could be lost forever if the records were ill-maintained. Stories printed as books, on the other hand, could be preserved for potentially all of eternity—and when the time came to copy the text from an old, ruined manuscript into a much newer tome—all it took was ink and paper, rather than a need to remember the spoken word with perfect recall.

Rolega made a wavering gesture with her free hand when Vinye mentioned this to her, which the Altmer took to mean as "not quite." Still, she felt her respect for the mute Nord rise. "I like to read myself," Vinye told her. "I might even _write_ a book one day—I've not been in Skyrim long, but I've learned a lot already."

"What about the Tong?" Malys wanted to know. "Why would they come out all this far just to kill a bard?"

Rolega gave the Dunmer an odd look, and began scribbling furiously on a new sheet of parchment. _Not bard; once, with Guild in Riften._ She pointed to herself with a hint of pride, and then added, _think me bard? Think elves normal for mages peeking in dwarven cities._ She shot another look at Malys, and cracked an impish grin.

Malys and Vinye exchanged glances at the writing on the parchment. "You're with the Thieves Guild?" Malys asked, at exactly the same time Vinye inquired, "What do you know about the Dwemer?"

Rolega looked at them with some amusement before pointing to Vinye, then rummaging in her own satchel. To the elves' complete astonishment, the Nord pulled out a blue, glowing crystal whose half-moon shape looked a little _too_ familiar to Vinye.

She quickly rummaged in her satchel, and her surprise rapidly changed to horror when she noticed that the strange crystalline object she'd found in Raldbthar wasn't anywhere to be found.

It took her a moment to put two and two together. "Hey!" she cried out indignantly, and made a swipe for the artifact. Rolega didn't resist, and relinquished the crystal to her with another mischievous smile.

Vinye wasn't pleased. "You ought to learn to keep your hands to yourself," she warned threateningly as she pocketed it in her bag—taking extra care to seal the lining this time.

Rolega shrugged. _Thief_, she wrote. _Old habits never die_. She turned to Malys. _Joined with Guild when weak. Fellow thief made crossbow. Good with hands, not so with feet. Markarth: caught by guard, dead. Now, Guild strong in Markarth, all over Skyrim, beyond_, _but left at peak_. She pointed to herself before resuming her writing._ Left before Black-Briar._

"Can you tell us anything about that?" Malys asked when she saw the name. "We heard something in Riften—that someone contacted the Morag Tong to kill Maven Black-Briar. It sounded like the Guild was involved, too—maybe even the Dark Brotherhood."

Rolega made a noise for the first time—a horrible, gurgling sound from her ruined throat as she voiced her disagreement. _ Rogue Tong killed Maven_, she scribbled, nearly upsetting her inkwell in her silent anger_. Writ not sanctioned. Guild, Brotherhood framed. Hunted. Brotherhood quiet, closed off. No side, no word. Guild fight Tong, bloody. Under Tamriel, war now. War in shadow—none know._

Vinye didn't like the sound of that. An underground war—potentially being fought right under their noses—between the Thieves Guild of Skyrim and the Morag Tong of Morrowind? _No wonder Riften's closed off to the outside—it's right in the thick of the battleground_. And then there was the Dark Brotherhood; Vinye had to assume "no side, no word" meant the Brotherhood was not taking sides in this so-called war. She wasn't sure how to feel about that; frankly, one resurgent assassins' guild in Tamriel was enough.

She didn't notice Rolega's next message until the Nord prodded her hand with the tip of her quill. Peering down at the parchment, she read, _Once, Dwemer treasure illegal; hold and sell on pain of death. Needed writ of Emperor. Now, no more Emperor, artifacts worth many septims—many buyers come, many collectors of Dwemer trinkets, __many bidders__._ Rolega tipped her quill at this last bit, underscoring its message even further.

And suddenly Vinye understood. "You're looking for Dwemer artifacts, too?" she said, loud enough for Malys to hear. The Altmer pulled her pack a little tighter around her robe, and Malys looked at Rolega suspiciously.

_If paying_. Rolega looked at both mages in a very meaningful way, and rubbed her thumb and index fingers together to drive her point home. _Not alone. Others in Skyrim, others search. Willing to steal. Willing to kill._

Vinye felt a sinking feeling in her stomach as the words sank in. This could only mean one thing, perhaps two. Firstly, Rolega knew about Solyn in some way, potentially even as much as Drevis Neloren, Urag, and—as of a few days ago, Vinye—now knew. Even if she was no longer with the Guild, Rolega must still be privy to underworld channels; if that was the case, it would be easy for anyone with ties to the Thieves Guild to hear something in passing, no matter how cleverly the information was transmitted from one place to the other.

Secondly—and this was much more disturbing—there were others searching for Dwemer relics as well. And if Rolega's handwriting was to be believed, they were in Skyrim—and they would go to whatever end to take as many relics of the dwarves as they could. They would be willing to steal and murder and lie—and the consumer would be none the wiser … or, if he felt particularly unscrupulous, he would conveniently look the other way.

And in a way, this proved what Drevis had said about Solyn in his letter to Urag—but Vinye was not ready to disclose those details yet. It was definitely something the Arch-Mage needed to be informed of, and if Urag was half as smart as Vinye hoped, he'd have told Grimnir already. Malys and Cosette … probably, she thought, but Vinye would have to choose her words carefully. _Best if I keep this as quiet as possible_.

"The sooner Cosette comes to Whiterun, the better," she told Malys in a hushed voice after summarizing Rolega's message. "She needs to know what's going on here. We may be facing some competition—we need to be ready."

Rolega scrawled on the parchment. _One more word—one more artifact. None know, none can find, not me_.

Vinye felt her heart rise a little; information was always useful—always assuming, of course, that it was true. "What kind of artifact?" she asked.

The Nord inscribed a single word, and showed it to the two mages. Malys pursed her lips, but Vinye arched her eyebrows; both caught the other's expression, and instinctively knew they'd heard the word before.

"Can you tell us where to find this?" Vinye asked eagerly.

Rolega shook her head, and tapped her thumb and forefinger again. Vinye understood the message well enough, and grunted in annoyance. "No, thanks." _I spent enough gold on that carriage ride_, she thought bitterly. _I went on a wild-goose chase for nothing._

Rolega heaved herself up from her stool at that moment, holding a hand up to her mouth in a silent yawn, and began gathering her many scraps of parchment.

"Wait," Malys said. "One more thing. You told us there's going to be more people out there, all of them searching for dwarven treasure, right?"

Rolega nodded.

Malys crossed her arms. "So what's stopping you from telling _them_ about _us_?"

The thief put a finger to her chin in thought, and scribbled more furiously than ever on her sheaf of parchment. _Push. All need push. Only questions: who to push, when to push, how far to push._

And with that, the thief turned on her heel, tossing the used scraps of parchment into the fireplace of the bar, where they curled and shriveled in the flames. Rolega the Quiet clutched her crossbow (now folded back into its lute shape) and made her way upstairs without any sign of goodbye.

Malys watched her go with a bemused look that did not suit the vampire's face at all. "What'd she mean by that?"

"I'm not sure," Vinye replied. "It's probably simpler than we're thinking, though. She did say she was a thief, Malys. All she cares about is money; she doesn't care what's being sold—or who's being sold out."

"A mercenary," Malys said. "I had to hire one to help me while I was combing the Velothi range." Her face fell. "If it wasn't for him, I don't think I'd be sitting here right now."

"Did you find anything?"

Malys pulled back the sleeve of her robe, and Vinye's heart jumped when she caught a glimpse of an armored gauntlet before Malys replaced it over her forearm. "Is that—?"

"Wraithguard," Malys nodded, keeping her voice at a whisper. Her eyes shifted left and right at the people in the inn, as if she were expecting Rolega to leap out any minute now and try to rob them of their treasure—and Vinye couldn't blame her. "I wish I didn't know there were other people hunting for dwarven treasure at the same time," she sighed. "I've already got one bulls-eye painted on my chest now that I'm a vampire—no harm in adding another one, right?"

Vinye smiled wryly as she pulled out a mass of wrapped linen from her satchel. "You think _you've_ got a bulls-eye? You should see what I found in this ruin east of Windhelm." She held it out of sight of the rest of the crowd inside the Bannered Mare, but Malys could see the package just fine if she leaned over.

When Malys did see it, she leapt back so quickly that several Nords nearby looked at her suspiciously before shrugging and returning to their mead. "Sunder?!" mouthed the Dunmer, and Vinye noted with some concern that Malys looked faintly sick all of a sudden.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"I'm not sure," Malys said, swallowing. "I was hoping we wouldn't find all three of Kagrenac's Tools. Part of me was hoping they'd all been destroyed in the Red Year."

"All three?" Vinye frowned. "Are you saying you"—she lowered her voice conspiratorially—"found Keening?"

Malys shook her head. "Not exactly. The Arch-Mage had Keening," she said, and Vinye's eyes widened. "I tried to sneak into his room after we came back from Rkund—that's why I didn't meet you and Cosette in the Arcaneum until a lot later—and I found it hanging on his wall."

Vinye was stunned. "How in Oblivion did he come by Keening?"

She listened as the Dunmer told her about nearly missing a severe punishment when the Arch-Mage himself had caught Malys, of how Keening had been recovered after more than two hundred years, and the ghost of Arniel Gane and his failed experiment. That certainly explained why Malys had looked the way she did that night in the Arcaneum, she thought. She felt a brief surge of vindictive pleasure at the anecdote. _Serves her right_.

"I don't know what he did with Keening," Malys finished, "but the Arch-Mage said he would help me only that one time, so I'm guessing he's already delivered it to Solyn."

Vinye pounded the table with a fist. "Damn it." That was _not_ the news she'd wanted to hear.

Malys looked at her strangely. "Vinye, what is it about that wizard that's got you so worried?" she asked. "Does it have something to do with that letter you showed me?"

"Something like that," Vinye said hesitantly. "I don't want to say anything until Cosette shows up—she deserves to know, too. There's too many people here, and I don't trust any of them."

"Do you trust me?"

Vinye saw the pleading look on Malys' face—and for one fleeting moment, she was almost persuaded. "No. No, I don't," she said simply. "Trust isn't that easy to win back, Malys. I'm willing to give you a chance—but if you want to get back into my good graces, then you've got a lot of work to do."

The Dunmer looked surprisingly relieved to hear that. "I wasn't expecting anything less from you, all things considered," she said grudgingly. "But you can't be on your own forever, Vinye. If we're going to make this work—if _I'm_ going to make this work—then you need to promise me that much."

Vinye hesitated. She was more than capable of pulling her own weight, and she'd already done so much on her own—discovered cultures and worlds both seen and unseen, stretched the limits of her magickal abilities further than she'd ever thought possible.

And up until one day ago, she didn't think that would change one bit.

But _everything_ had changed now. What had started as a way to give the College a much-needed boost in finances, recognition—and who knew what else—had now become a twisting labyrinth of lies and deceit. And whether they liked it or not, she, Cosette, and Malys were all in this together.

She sighed, and gradually nodded. "All right," she said softly. "Together."

She reached her hand out to Malys, and the Dunmer did the same. As warm hand shook cold hand, Vinye felt the tension of the past twenty-four hours lift from her shoulders. She slumped in her chair and sighed.

"By the way, Vinye," Malys piped up, "do you know anything about that crystal Rolega swiped from you?"

Vinye frowned. "I can't say I do," she replied. "Maybe I've got a book on it somewhere, but I don't really feel like turning my bags inside out just to look for one book." She blinked. "I think I really need to get some rest," she added, "because I don't know any other reason I'd say something like that."

Malys was rummaging in her pack. "Are you sure?" she asked. "Because Wraithguard wasn't all I found. I also found _this_ in some kind of storeroom near Mzulft. I don't know how J'zargo missed it when he was there."

Vinye stared in complete shock as Malys pulled another glowing blue half-moon from her satchel. Except for the indentations in the center, it looked virtually identical to the crystal Vinye had found in Raldbthar.

"I have no idea," the Altmer said softly, as she continued to marvel at the object. "I have no idea at all … "

* * *

After that, there had not been much reason for Vinye and Malys to stay awake any further. The tension of the past few days had taken its toll on both of them, and recent events had, if anything, made matters worse. And so they elected to turn in for the night; Vinye had rented out a room for the week, and shilled out a few more septims so Malys could have her own place to sleep—right where the Altmer could keep an eye on her.

The night that followed was one of the worst, most sleepless nights of Vinye's life. Even those first few weeks she'd been on the run from Falinesti hadn't caused so much paranoia as the vampire sleeping in the bedroll five feet away from her. Rolega's revelations of competition were no help—when Vinye wasn't anticipating Malys to leap up and drink her dry, she was anticipating their door to be kicked down by a dozen thieves, sellswords, and mercenaries. And then, to round off the horrible night, the steady pitter-patter of rain was beginning to beat on the windowsill, punctuated with the occasional rumble of thunder.

Eventually, the Altmer grew tired of the constant noise, and rose from the bed. A small pick-me-up might be able to help calm her nerves, she decided, and so she descended the stairs to the bar. Only a smattering of people were here as opposed to the small crowd earlier in the night; Rolega the thief was not among them.

Hulda appeared almost as soon as she'd sat down at the counter. "What can I get you?" she asked, her demeanor noticeably more cheerful than it had been after last night's altercation.

"Alto wine," Vinye replied. "Something with a little spice to it, if you have any—last night was rougher on me than I thought," she added sheepishly.

Hulda clucked her tongue sympathetically. "Aye." She disappeared in the back of the bar for a minute, and returned with a bright green bottle. "That'll be fifteen septims."

Once Vinye had paid the bartender, she uncorked the bottle and took a small draught, feeling the slightly fiery taste of the liquor warming her insides. Slowly but surely, she felt her troubled mind relax, and all thoughts of Malys and treasure hunters sank out of sight.

She dug into her satchel as she took another drink, and thumbed through the tomes she'd brought with her. _Tamrielic Lore_ was there; she would have to cross-reference that with Rolega's claims later on, Vinye thought. Then her fingers brushed across a much newer book.

Vinye had completely forgotten about Urag giving her a copy of _The Aetherium Wars_. Aetherium … that almost sounded like it could be the name of a substance, thought the Altmer. Perhaps that was what the dwarves called that miraculous metal found all over the ruined cities they'd left behind. Or perhaps it was … Her thoughts went to the crystal shard sitting in her satchel, and she finally pried open the book after taking another sip of wine:

_Dedicated to Katria,_ _my Friend and Colleague_

_…_

_For centuries, scholars have marveled at the sudden collapse of the Dwemer city-states. Even the Nords seem to have been taken by surprise, though their chroniclers were quick to ascribe their success to King Gellir's inspired tactics and the blessings of Shor._

_My research suggests a much different cause, however. In the decades preceding their fall, the dwarven cities of Skyrim had been decimated by internal disputes and infighting over a most surprising cause: Aetherium._

_Modern scholars know Aetherium as a rare, luminescent blue crystal found in some Dwemer ruins. Most consider it little more than a curiosity, as it has proven all but impossible to work with: while it has a strong magical aura, it is alchemicially inert, and no known process can enchant, smelt, mold, bind, or break it._

_To the dwarves, of course, such problems were merely a challenge. In the years following King Harald's reign, the Dwemer discovered a considerable source of Aetherium in their deepest delvings. An alliance of four cities, led by Arkngthamz, the great research center in the southern Reach, was formed to oversee its extraction, processing, and study, and a new 'Aetherium Forge' constructed to smelt it under precisely controlled conditions._

_If the inscriptions I discovered are to be believed, the results were nothing short of spectacular: the items produced by the Forge were artifacts of immense power, imbued from the moment of their creation with powerful enchantments. The dwarven alliance shattered almost immediately, as the four city-states and their rivals attempted to claim the Forge._

_…_

_But nothing like the Aetherium Forge described in the inscriptions has ever been found within the borders of Skyrim. It may have been destroyed long ago, by the Nord invaders or the Dwemer themselves. Or perhaps it, like the secrets of Aetherium itself, still remains to be discovered._

Vinye closed the book and pocketed it with some difficulty, as her fingers were trembling slightly. _Aetherium_ … She brushed the cool surface of the blue crystal shard, nestled comfortably in her bag. She dared not take it out now; in some ways, Vinye regretted that she'd discovered this information. Now that she knew what it was called, and the power it was capable of, the Altmer's mind was clanging with dozens of alarm bells.

This little blue crystal was one big bulls-eye.

And Malys had found some of that Aetherium as well … Vinye suddenly felt sick.

_Many buyers come, many collectors of Dwemer trinkets, __many bidders__ …_

Suddenly the front door of the Bannered Mare banged open with enough force to rattle the candles on the tables. Vinye, shaken from her thoughts, turned to look for the commotion, and her heart rose when she saw who was at the front door.

Cosette Ionsaithe was soaked head-to-toe in the rain shower, and looked in a very bad mood indeed. Even when she noticed Vinye sitting down at the counter, she did not give any sign of recognition—instead crossing the length of the inn, and planting herself on the stool next to her.

"Firebrand. _Now_," she growled at Hulda the minute she'd sat down, and slammed a fistful of septims on the rude wood of the counter. "I've had a bad week."

Hulda backed away slightly from the hostile tone in the tiny Breton's voice, and she set about checking her cellar for the drink in question. An uncomfortable silence hung between the two mages like an axe on a thread.

"So … how was your trip?" Vinye finally ventured, attempting an awkward smile.

Silence.

_Okay—probably not talking about the Dwemer_, Vinye thought with a quirked eyebrow. She searched for another topic of conversation, and she felt her eyes drawn to the not one, but _two_ crude swords strapped over Cosette's robe in an X.

"I like the new sword," lied the Altmer through her teeth. "Where did you find it?"

Cosette didn't even look in her direction. "_Not_ in the mood," she spoke through clenched teeth. Hulda reappeared with a red-labeled glass bottle in her hand, filled with something bright red and smelling slightly of smoke. The Breton wasted no time in tipping back the flask into her mouth and taking a deep drink.

"Ugh—watered down," she grumbled, banging the now half-full bottle on the counter. She finally turned to look at Vinye, and the high elf did a double take at the look in Cosette's face. It was ruddy and flushed, especially near the eyes—which themselves were quite red as well. Moreover, some of the wetness on her face didn't look like it had been caused by rain; suddenly, Vinye was starting to believe that the rain had nothing to do with Cosette's mood.

"Cosette … have you been crying?"

"I said I'm not in the mood!" Cosette snapped—so loudly her voice cracked—and Vinye recoiled at the harsh tone of voice.

Just as quickly, however, Cosette had slumped in her stool with a groan. "I got the Spellbreaker," she said. Vinye was surprised to hear this, and immediately gestured at Cosette to keep her voice down.

But the Breton continued unabated. "Met the family," she continued belligerently, her eyes misting over in what Vinye thought might have been either wistful nostalgia—or perhaps a sense of regret—compounded with what the Altmer guessed was some very potent liquor. "Had some time to spare, so I killed some Forsworn, got a new blade out of it.

"What about you?" Vinye could hear the derision in Cosette's question. "I'm guessing you were all fine and dandy this past week, huh? Found an artifact every other day?"

Vinye stood up so abruptly she kicked aside her stool, and it clattered to the floor—but she didn't hear it, and neither did she care.

"All right—what is your problem?" the Altmer shouted at the top of her lungs, not even caring that other patrons were beginning to stop and stare. "Did you think this was some kind of insignificant game, Cosette? Are Dwemer relics just sticks and stones and pretty shiny things to you?! Are you that much of a_ child?!_"

Cosette drew herself to her full height—which wasn't much next to Vinye, but the fire in her eyes was burning so brightly it was almost palpable. "You've got a lot of nerve calling me a child," she growled at the Altmer; Vinye could smell the smokiness of the wine Cosette had drunk, and suppressed the urge to cough.

"My family and I have survived in the Reach by the skin of our teeth for longer than I can remember," Cosette continued to rave. Her face was growing redder by the second. "What about you, Vinye? Huh?! I bet life was good in the Dominion for you, wasn't it? All pampered and spoiled? Were you were crying for mommy and daddy the first night you came to the College?"

At that moment, Vinye didn't care that Cosette had probably drunk far more liquor than her small body could handle, and probably did not mean the words coming out of her mouth. All she remembered was a surge of fury rearing up like a bear on its hind legs. The next thing she knew, she was lashing out with her open hand, and there was a sharp flare-up of pain as her palm connected squarely with Cosette's red cheek.

But Vinye did not stop there. "My father was a fool who was slaughtered by his own massacre!" she stormed at the Breton. "I can never face my mother again because of what he did; I can't ever go back to the Summerset Isle. At least _you_ still have a family," she raged. "At least you can come home to a mother and father who still _love you!_"

Cosette didn't even seem to move. For one second, her left arm was a blur—and suddenly Vinye felt the breath knocked hard out of her stomach as Cosette's fist drove into her chest, knocking her against the counter.

"You don't get to talk about my family!" Cosette snarled. "_You haven't earned the right!_" Her fist pulled back. She was aiming squarely for Vinye's head—and the Altmer was still too winded to dodge the inevitable punch.

The next thing she knew, though, a powerful force had seized her by the scruff of her robe and yanked her forward.

WHACK.

Stars danced in front of Vinye's eyes as she stumbled back, stunned by the unexpected blow to her forehead. Her forehead felt like it was about to split open, it was hurting so bad, but as Vinye pried open an eye, she noticed—with some degree of satisfaction—that the Breton was also massaging her forehead, groaning in pain and swearing nonstop under her breath.

"That's enough out of you both!"

Only then did Vinye notice Hulda the bartender backing away from them both and back behind the counter. "It's too early in the morning for that kind of rabble-rousing!" groused the Nord as she wiped her hands on a slightly dirty cloth. "Now put a lid on it before I decide to knock your heads one more time, hear?

"And that goes for the rest of you lot!" she bellowed at the few customers inside the bar. "I'll be having no more fights under my roof! We'll see how much you louts want to settle a fight with the town guard!"

Only a few groans and grumbles met Hulda's ire. The publican growled under her breath, and returned to her duties as though she had not just butted the skulls of two mages together with her bare hands.

The two mages in question now slumped on their adjacent stools, still rubbing their temples and grumbling.

"_Unnh_." Cosette was first to speak. "Those headbutts have a way of clearing your head," she groaned. "That was my third bottle of firebrand wine in two days—I guess that's my limit."

She noticed Vinye giving her an odd look. "And I'm fine, thanks for asking."

The Altmer was not convinced. "Are you sure?" she said delicately. "I'm guessing since you got Spellbreaker, you were able to summon Peryite without too much trouble." She paused, noticing Cosette's face grow dark all of a sudden. "I hope … "

The Breton's fists tightened for a tense few seconds, and then they relaxed. "I'm not really ready to talk about it right now," Cosette said lamely—like all the fire had gone out of her after being manhandled by the bartender. "I got a lot more than I bargained for, and I paid the price—and all the Dwemer artifacts in Tamriel aren't going to make a dent in that."

There was no hostility behind the words—no promise of dying a horrible death—but nonetheless, Vinye decided not to pry into the subject any further.

A familiar yawn came from behind them, and Vinye turned to see Malys walking towards them. "I thought I heard your lovely voice, Cozy," the Dunmer mumbled, ruffling her messy hair in a feeble attempt to make it straight.

"_Someone_ looks like they've been burning the candle at both ends," Cosette remarked. "No, seriously, Malys—what in Oblivion happened to your face?"

Malys and Vinye exchanged looks, the Dunmer feeling her ridged brow and cleft lips, as if she'd just noticed they were there. "Ran into some trouble in the Rift," Malys said, a little too innocently. "I didn't cast my healing spell right, and I'm not too sure if the damage is reversible at this point in time."

Cosette's expression was completely unreadable. " … Uh-huh," she eventually settled on. "You do realize I'm not going to let this one go any time soon, Malys? Cheating at conjuration is one thing"—she gave Vinye a look—"but failing to cast a simple healing spell? That's just a whole new level of pathetic."

Malys didn't appear all that bothered by the insult. "If I'm honest," she said in a cheery voice that made Vinye uneasy, "I don't really mind the new look. You could say I'm proud of it—like how Nords always boast about their war wounds and battle scars—or like you and your arm, even," she added, pointing to the Breton's scarred hand.

Cosette spent an uncomfortably long time mulling this over in her head before she finally shrugged. "Uf … fine," she said. She didn't sound too convinced by Malys' words, but neither did she apparently care enough to notice the two elves breathe a mutual sigh of relief.

"All right," Vinye said, before anyone could get further distracted—making sure to keep out of earshot of Hulda the bartender. "We should bring each other up to snuff now that we all know we're alive and well." _Mostly_, she mentally amended, casting a sideways glance at Malys.

"Malys and I have already caught up with one another. I recovered the hammer Sunder in a ruin called Raldbthar, a long way to the northeast from here. Yes, _that_ Sunder," she said, noting Cosette's brief look of recognition. "What's more, Malys tells me she recovered Wraithguard from deep under the Velothi Mountains—and that Keening has apparently been in the possession of the Arch-Mage himself for some time. Bit of a tale, so I'm told. So, as it stands, we have unofficially recovered all of Kagrenac's tools. I say unofficially because … well, I'll get to that later.

"Furthermore, we have a lead on another possible dwarven artifact. I can't say I completely trust the veracity of the source, so I'll be looking into this in greater detail once we're back in Winterhold. All I was given was one word: Volendrung." She waved the piece of parchment Rolega had inscribed with that word. "And Malys, you'll be glad to know that Cosette was able to recover the Spellbreaker at great risk of life and limb—"

Cosette muttered something that sounded roughly like, "If you only knew, you damnable little—"

Vinye ignored her. "Lastly, Malys and I each recovered a carved bluish crystal during our expeditions. I did some reading, and it would appear this crystal has a name: Aetherium. It was used to make some very powerful artifacts, supposedly, and I think there might be a chance some of them might have survived. There might be some ruins worth looking into as well that could offer—"

"Wait a minute, wait a minute," Cosette interrupted. "This bluish crystal—Aetherium, did you call it? Was it cut in a … half-circle shape, by any chance?"

Vinye felt the sensation of a bucketful of ice pouring into her stomach. " … Yes," she said uneasily. "Why?"

And to her shock and horror, the Breton casually reached into her satchel and pulled out yet another glowing blue crystal, almost identical to the ones carried by herself and Malys.

Before she even knew she was doing it, Vinye was reaching over the table and shoving the Aetherium shard back into Cosette's bag. "What are you doing?!" she hissed. "Put it back—before anyone sees—!"

Cosette hastily obeyed. "What's gotten into you?"

"Whatever this Aetherium is, it's dangerous," Vinye said warningly. "Very dangerous, and very powerful—so much so that the Dwemer nearly destroyed themselves because they wanted it so badly."

"Well, what are we waiting for, then?" Cosette asked. "Let's find a courier or three, and get all these artifacts delivered to Solyn on the double. You said it yourself, Vinye—this stuff is dangerous. And Solyn wants to make sure no one runs afoul of their relics any more, right?"

She caught the look on Vinye's face, and her hopeful expression faltered. " … Right?"

Vinye sighed. "Which is why I've decided we're heading back to Winterhold."

Cosette stared blankly at her. "_What_."

"No couriers," Vinye said sharply. "No deliveries—not even a sliver of metal is to be delivered to Solyn." She looked at Malys—who merely appeared slightly bewildered—to Cosette, who looked absolutely flabbergasted. "I've learned a lot these past few days," the Altmer explained to them, "and I'm not all that comfortable with explaining the details where we are now.

"We'll be leaving town at the break of dawn," Vinye said, "so I suggest you get yourselves straightened out. We make for the College on foot from here—no carriages. I promise you—I'll explain everything on the way."

Malys and Cosette looked as if they wanted to do everything but agree—but in the end, they had no other option but to do so.

* * *

_Into the Pale_

_Several hours later_

The ground was slowly changing from hues of browns and greens to grays and whites, and Whiterun was slowly shrinking in the distance behind them. Only when they passed a small, overgrown sign—informing the mages that they had just left Whiterun Hold—did Vinye finally break the news.

"Solyn is lying to us," she said. "He's got his own agenda, and somehow I don't think it involves sealing away powerful relics for all eternity."

Malys' malformed face—mostly hidden by her black hood—contorted further still in shock and confusion. Cosette, meanwhile, was so surprised by this news that she forgot about her sour mood completely, if only for a moment.

"What? What makes you say that?" she cried.

Vinye pulled out the letter from Urag, and continued reciting the letter where Malys had left off the other night:

_—Secondly, the matter of this wizard called Solyn: As I said previously, Master Neloth excels at divination, and can successfully trace the past five generations of any given Dunmer, regardless of whether or not they are in physical contact, or even alive. Given our potential for long life, this can span at least a thousand years' worth of Dunmer._

_Urag, not only is there no record of Savos Aren ever bearing any children, but there is no evidence that anyone with the name Solyn ever existed within the last thousand years. Neloth claims he has even spoken with the spirit of Divayth Fyr himself, who lived to see the disappearance of the Dwemer in the First Era, and even that most vaunted sorcerer has never heard of such a name._

_Irrespective of Neloth's penchant for boasting, Urag, this is a very grave situation the College has become involved with. I advise you to speak to Arch-Mage Grimnir immediately on the matter. Ask him—implore him, if need be—to cancel whatever deal you have made with this Solyn. I am almost certain he is not who he appears to be._

_As for the mages tasked with this burden, I cannot presume myself to have authority over them, but I pray to Azura that they will find it in themselves to do the right thing._

_Drevis Neloren_

Vinye pocketed the letter grimly. Malys and Cosette traded uneasy looks with one another.

"So there you have it," Vinye said. "Solyn is not the son of Savos Aren. Until we get some better answers than that, I am not setting foot anywhere _near_ Rkund again—and I'm not letting any of these artifacts out of my sight until then. Because it isn't just Solyn I'm worried about—I have reason to believe that there's other people looking for Dwemer artifacts as well. If we aren't careful, they could come for us—and they will kill us if it means they find what they're looking for."

Malys looked worried. "Maybe you haven't seen exactly what these artifacts are?" she said to Vinye, as if it was the simplest thing in the world. "You and I each have one of the most powerful tools ever created by the dwarves. Cosette has a shield that dates back to the First Era—maybe even older—and has the favor of a sodding Daedric Prince! We are a prime target for half of Tamriel—and they will stop at nothing to get what they think is rightfully theirs. They will kill us if we have to!"

"I know that," said Vinye stubbornly. "Which is exactly why we're _walking_ to Winterhold instead of taking a carriage. There are carriage drivers all over Skyrim, drivers that probably carry their own fair share of adventurers and sellswords as well. Who's to stop them from mouthing off to each other? If they somehow found out about us, we'd be at risk of putting the College in danger."

Malys said nothing, but the resigned expression on her face suggested she wasn't about to argue with Vinye. Cosette, however, wasn't about to give up so easily. "Have you always been so paranoid?" she said with a raised eyebrow. "You keep acting like someone's going to jump out from behind every other tree we walk by."

Vinye shot a look at her. "If I wasn't paranoid, I'd be _dead_ by now," she said bluntly. "Maybe you ought to try living with an axe over your head for a change. See how long it takes before you look up and wonder when it's going to fall."

Cosette grumbled under her breath, but said nothing.

"She has a point, Vinye," Malys said calmly. "We're sitting ducks on foot. We can get to Winterhold much quicker by carriage." She pointed a thumb at Cosette. "If the driver knows too much, Cozy can just kill him and be done with it, can't she?"

Cosette tried to act offended, but Vinye noticed her face brighten for just that one instant. "Now that doesn't sound like the Malys I know," she said in a falsely sweet voice.

Malys said nothing. Vinye couldn't blame her at all for holding her tongue; Cosette was volatile enough as it was. If she were to find out Malys was a vampire … Vinye repressed a shudder. That was a mess she didn't want to think about at all. It would be best to break that particular news gently—assuming, of course, that the time ever came.

Unfortunately, fate had other ideas in store for them.

Some time later, after they'd found the route to Winterhold, the mages noticed a lone figure walking towards them. Snow was beginning to fall, and the glare of the sunlight, made it hard for Vinye to focus her eyes. But Malys—presumably because of her vampiric nature—could see the figure just fine, as she immediately stiffened. The Dunmer abruptly raised an arm, signaling for the mages to stop.

"Malys, what—"

"Both of you stay back." Malys' voice was unusually tense, and her mouth was the only part of her body that moved. "Whatever happens from here on out, you will not get in the way. If the worst should happen to me, then take what you can, and don't you dare look back."

"If the worst should—?" Vinye was about to say—and then she saw the figure in better detail. She knew who he was; the Altmer remembered that shade of golden-brown on the figure's robe like it was yesterday, and she especially remembered the scintillating blade that hung from its scabbard—a white-hot needle that could pierce a vampire's cold flesh with impunity. And she most definitely recognized the man wearing them both.

_Auri-El, give me strength_, she thought with a gulp.

It was Lucius Anglinius.

* * *

_Next chapter: How did an enemy of the Daedra become the champion of a Daedra Lord? Meanwhile, good news and bad news abounds in Winterhold—including the College's first look at "competition."_

* * *

**A/N: Whew. I had to revise this chapter so many times that it's not even funny anymore. Between that and whole days of just mucking about, nothing to do—for a while, I was debating just holding out till the end of the month and releasing this update then. But I doubt that would've been fair to you, so ****_voilà_****. I hope it is acceptable to you.**

**I'll try my hardest to get one more chapter up by the end of the month, but I can't make any promises. School will be starting up in less than a week for me, and I don't know how much longer I can keep this current pace of mine up. Fortunately, I might have enough space in my class schedule to where I can maybe release one update every month. Rest assured, I'll do my best to keep my updates as regular as I can.**

**That's me done for now, then. As always, feel free to rate, review, and recommend, and I hope you enjoy! - K**


	11. X

**A/N: Rrrgh. I am so, so sorry for such a late and crappy update. I hate that I had to just slap together twelve thousand words of nothin' at a time like this, especially with school underway and everything.**

**Speaking of, and it pains me to say this, classes are a bit tougher than I'd anticipated. Still a bit early in the semester, so maybe I can try and get into a groove. But this, combined with some fairly big changes in my personal life, means that there probably will not be any new chapters until the winter holidays.**

**Thanks for reading—and hopefully understanding—and I hope you enjoy! - K**

X

_Two days ago_

The mid-morning light saw Lucius trudging through the snowy foothills of the Pale, his sightless eyes narrowed in pursuit of his goal: a small, unassuming wooden shack nestled in the mountain.

The Hall of the Vigilant was the headquarters of the Vigil of Stendarr, who were tasked by the God of Mercy and Justice to eliminate the influence of the daedra and the undead across Tamriel. A noble goal, Lucius thought—though it was a shame that they had not taken well to what had at the time been a mere fascination with Meridia, who while possessing a hatred of the undead that even the Vigil did not possess, was also a Daedra—otherwise he might never have left their ranks.

But left he had, and he was grateful that he had left on fairly good terms with Carcette—especially today, for he had a very … personal matter to talk with her about.

He had returned to Meridia's shrine overlooking Haafingar immediately after that unqualified debacle at Rkund. Then, for three days and three nights, he had prayed there in solitude. He sought the council of the Lady of Infinite Energies, and neither ate nor drank while he searched for an answer to the burning question in his mind.

What had he done wrong?

Two Vigilants stood guard near the doorway to the Hall, their characteristic tan-and-blue robes wrapped over their suits of steel plate. They snapped to attention when Lucius approached them, and crossed their steel maces in an X, blocking his way in.

_New recruits_, Lucius huffed—though he could not see their faces with his eyes alone, the sound of their weapons drawing had been enough. "I would speak with Carcette," he said loudly and clearly. "Tell her that Lucius is here."

After a few seconds of skeptical silence, Lucius heard the creak of armored boots on wood as one of the Vigilants went inside. He reemerged some time later, with similar—but smaller—footsteps in his wake.

"Vigilant Lucius," said an even-toned voice—with just the faintest hint of an edge to it. Lucius imagined an even fainter smile flickering about the woman's face.

He smiled back. "That was a long time ago, Keeper Carcette. The same destination—just a different journey."

He felt a thin but supple hand, calloused from years of wielding that polished ebony mace of hers, wrap around his gnarled fingers. "You should have told me you were coming—I would have set up a room for you."

"It's been a long journey," Lucius agreed. "And any other day, I'd be grateful that you'd go to the trouble. But I'm sure you know I wouldn't come for a social call. You always showed good judgment when I was a part of the Vigil; I could use a dose of that judgment right about now."

Carcette guided him to one of the wooden benches that took up the majority of the Hall's interior, and Lucius sat down. "Thank you," he said graciously.

He heard a creak as Carcette sat beside him. "Now," she said, "what is it you came all this way to ask me?"

Lucius took a long draft of water from his flask to wet his throat before he told Carcette about his business in Winterhold, his dialogue with the wizards of Winterhold, and his encounter with the Dunmer he had suspected to be a vampire—with special emphasis on how Meridia and had judged her to not be one of the Volkihar.

Carcette was silent for a long while when Lucius finally finished his anecdote. "Why did you not tell us about this before?" she finally asked. "The Vigil has operatives all throughout Skyrim and even beyond. Why, we even have an outpost in the Rift, presumably near this Rkund. Did it not occur to you that we could easily have intercepted this alleged vampire and dealt with it accordingly?"

As a matter of fact, it had not—and Lucius felt his head bowing slightly in his foolishness. "The Arch-Mage of Winterhold had tasked me personally to track her down," he explained. "I was not obligated to, but—"

"But why—?" Carcette interrupted, before Lucius felt her hand squeeze his slightly, as if an idea had just come to her. "Or was that the only reason you thought it wise to go after her yourself?"

Lucius said nothing. That was enough for Carcette.

She sighed. "Understand, Lucius, I did not hold it against you when you left us. There were many of us who did not see the same appeal to Meridia that you saw—but I did. Do you know why I asked you to leave the Vigil?"

Lucius did indeed remember. "I let my feelings get ahead of me … cloud my duty to Stendarr."

"Exactly," Carcette said. Lucius heard her sucking in air through her teeth, as if dreading to say anything more to him.

And then she asked, "Lucius … how is your daughter?"

Lucius' fist tightened automatically, and he felt Carcette withdraw her hand from his at the unexpected action. But he did not think more on it; his sightless eyes were suddenly hot with tears, and his free hand was beginning to shake in anger—anger at the monsters that had snatched her from his house in Bruma … and anger at himself, for doing the things he'd done since then, and the lengths he'd gone to, all in the hope of seeing his daughter alive and well.

"Thirty years," he said, half to himself. "It's been thirty years since I started my search. Cyrodiil, Skyrim—even Morrowind. Nothing—but I know she's still out there, Carcette. If I have to turn over every stone in Tamriel—"

"—it would not do you any good," Carcette pleaded softly. "Lucius, this vendetta of yours has wrecked you. It took your sight, it's taking your health, and it could damn well take your life! Just admit that she's—"

"Never!" Lucius growled, slamming his palm on the bench. "I am her father! If anything had happened to her, I would know by now. Don't _ever_ tell me otherwise!"

When Carcette gripped his hand again a few moments later, it was softer this time, and Lucius felt himself relax. "Sorry," he said, calming his voice to a more manageable level. "I shouldn't have lashed out like that at you."

"The fault is mine," Carcette said gently. "I should have realized there might still be some … old ghosts, if you'll excuse the turn of phrase. I am sorry for your misfortune, Lucius, as I was when you first joined us … but my point still stands. It is good to serve the gods and carry out their wishes—but not at the expense of one's well-being."

Lucius grunted. "Someone said that to me just last week," he said, remembering the words of one of the wizards of the College. "Perhaps they were right about that, hmm?"

Carcette stroked his gnarled hand. "It doesn't have to be tomorrow, Lucius. It may not even happen with a simple 'Welcome home.' But I'm sure you and your daughter will be reunited one day. Put your trust in your gods, and you will see her again."

_If only it was that easy_, Lucius thought. Trust in Stendarr was not the same thing as trust in Meridia.

_Trust in Meridia …_

Lucius suddenly sat bolt upright as inspiration suddenly hit him. "That's it!" _How did this not occur to me before?!_

"Excuse me?" Carcette sounded genuinely confused.

But Lucius did not hear her. "Stendarr save you, Carcette, you're a genius!" he cried.

He embraced the still-bemused Keeper, and then rushed on his way out, his elation now giving way to his sense of duty. Now he knew what he'd done wrong, and he hoped he still had time enough to correct his mistake.

Lucius was unaware that Keeper Carcette was racing after him halfheartedly, still calling at him even as he sprinted away from the Hall of the Vigilant.

He was even less aware that that was the last time he would see Carcette alive.

* * *

Now, though, as he saw the three mages approaching him on the outskirts of the Pale, and recognized them with only a fleeting thought, Lucius Anglinius was only aware of one thing. He relaxed his milky white eyes, allowing Meridia to lend him her sight; the light of his Lady was such that even Lucius' blindness presented no hindrance—such was the connection between the Daedra and her priest.

He saw the Dunmer, Malys Aryon, exchanging words with the Altmer and the Breton next to her. They were of merely passing interest to him; they were two of the mages he'd remembered seeing in that Dwarven ruin overlooking Riften. The two mages backed away slightly, and looked on as the dark elf continued walking towards him—but still Lucius stood his ground. He felt the air growing colder and colder, and a voice in the back of his head told him it had nothing to do with the wind blowing through the valley of the Pale.

Finally, the Dunmer stopped in the road, barely five feet away from Lucius. He did not need to see her to know this; he could hear the breath of the elf before him, and the air was so cold that were he a lesser man, it would hurt merely to breathe.

There was silence for one whole minute while the two looked each other in the eye. Then Lucius finally sighed, and spoke.

"I've been looking for you, Malys Aryon," he said. "I came to offer my apology."

He heard nothing from the Dunmer—no indication of surprise or skepticism. Lucius took that as a good sign, and continued, "I have been … _overzealous_ in my actions of late. As a priest of Meridia, I am compelled to obey the wishes of my Lady, and drive out all manner of corruption from Tamriel. However, I have learned that my actions do not necessarily coincide with the wishes of other worldly entities. In my haste to fulfill the word of Meridia, I failed to listen to the words of your Arch-Mage … and also to myself." He bowed his head. "I endangered the life of an innocent victim of circumstance—and for that, I again offer my humble apologies."

Only when the last of Lucius' words had died on the wind did Malys finally speak. "You behaved like an arrogant youngling at Rkund, Lucius Anglinius," she said evenly, without any apparent trace of ill will. "You were headstrong, impulsive. But do you know what else you were?"

He felt Malys lean in close to him. The air around her was colder than ever.

"You were _right_."

It only took an instant for Meridia's priest to understand. His hand flew instinctively to Dawnbreaker, but he did not unsheathe it—_not yet_, said the voice in his mind. While it might well be the place, Meridia was telling him that this was not the right time to act.

_Patience, champion_. Her voice rang like a cathedral bell in his mind. _One way or another, this abomination will be cleansed in due time._

Lucius swallowed, and gradually relaxed—letting go of his sudden fear. "How is this so?" he asked—daring not to betray his uneasiness. He already knew the answer to his question—Carcette had told him that much.

Since their conversation, Lucius knew he'd been dwelling on his daughter's abduction for longer than he'd needed to—perhaps even thirty years too long. It pained him to admit it then, and it pained him to admit it now, but these thoughts had clouded his judgment—and Meridia's judgment by extension. And in that one moment of self-doubt, Dawnbreaker had failed him.

Now that this elf had confessed to being a vampire, this was especially true. In fact, Lucius had a suspicion that if he'd possessed a clearer head at the time, Malys might well have fallen at Rkund.

"The Malys Aryon you encountered at Rkund was … incomplete," the Dunmer explained. "I was damaged goods—my mind and memories were destroyed, split in two. I forgot so many things—fleeing Vvardenfell in the Red Year, picking up the pieces in Windhelm … even the vampires that made me what I am today."

Lucius frowned. Vampires—more than one? There was something odd about that.

"I know what you're thinking," Malys went on. "Why didn't your _little magic sword_ kill me when we last met?"

Lucius bristled at the dismissive tone she used in reference to a Daedric artifact, but refrained from showing his displeasure. Besides, even though he would rather die than admit it to this vampire, Lucius was keen to know himself. While the creations of the Daedra were fickle things, to be sure—and Dawnbreaker, Meridia forgive him, was no exception—Lucius had been asking himself that question ever since he'd first met this vampire, and even his visit to Carcette had not driven it from his mind entirely.

"Someone once told me there are forces in this world we will never truly understand," Malys said. "Our hearts, our minds, and everything that goes on inside them—to name just a few. That sword is no ordinary blade—it's … _alive_, isn't it? Somehow, it knows what I am; I can feel the heat it's been giving off ever since we started talking. I'd wager it's hotter than dragon-fire by now."

Lucius was only then aware of an uncomfortable sensation on his left hip, where Dawnbreaker hung from its scabbard. Occasionally, he would also hear the hiss of errant snowflakes on the ebony blade as they bubbled and melted on the superhot surface. He knew she was right—Dawnbreaker could sense the presence of even the tiniest gasp of undead breath, from the lowliest of the draugr to the highest of vampires.

And yet …

"But it didn't know what I was at Rkund, did it?" Malys continued. "My mind was so damaged that that blade couldn't sense my undead nature. And because you were so insistent that I _was_ a vampire, Dawnbreaker became confused—was I a vampire, or wasn't I? And Meridia wouldn't consign an innocent soul to a fate no _living_ being had a right to suffer."

Lucius grit his teeth, but he knew Malys was right. He had encountered vampires of every bloodline and walk of life—the Whet-Fangs of Black Marsh, the Nine Lines of the Iliac Bay, and even members of the Cyrodiil Vampyrum Order, who were notoriously difficult to detect—and Dawnbreaker had dealt with them all accordingly. Lucius had slain them, purging their taint from Tamriel and sending their souls to Meridia to be punished.

All this only made the truth clearer to him: this vampire, Malys Aryon, was unlike any undead he had ever seen, both as a Vigilant and as Meridia's champion. And Lucius—while he would never let that stand—had a unique opportunity to find out why. Was she simply an accident—some malicious jest of Clavicus Vile? Or was this yet another of Molag Bal's abhorrent machinations—the beginning of a completely new strain of vampire?

"You still haven't answered my question," he said warily. "How did you become a vampire? Only a week has passed since we last met—yet the Malys I see before me is far from any fledgling of the undead."

Malys laughed coldly. "Are you telling me Dawnbreaker can't do that, either?"

Lucius heard the smirk in her words, and growled under his breath. The question was irrelevant; Meridia did not distinguish between one vampire and another. In her eyes, they were all the same. At any rate, Lucius' days with the Vigil had given him much knowledge on the matter, and his duty as a priest-cum-vampire-hunter had only augmented those skills. Such was his knowledge now that Lucius had developed a scrye to discern the bloodline of a single vampire, and plan its destruction accordingly.

He murmured an incantation under his breath, and that scrye now bloomed in his left hand. Malys' body was instantly suffused in colors invisible to all eyes but his own. This was the "progenitor test", merely a preliminary examination. Lucius suspected that only Lamae Beolfag, the Nede who became the progenitor of all vampires through Molag Bal himself, would have glowed in such colors if she were still alive today—hence, the name.

Over time, as Lucius continued his studies, analyzing the physical and magickal capabilities of the vampire before him, he made his scans progressively more narrow. With each passing scrye, a bloodline was cast aside if its traits did not match up—and another, more probable bloodline took its place.

Before long, only two colors of light were left—the vivid bluish-white that signified the Volkihar and a dark, murky brown; it took Lucius some time to identify that as the Quarra, one of the three bloodlines of Morrowind, whose numbers had dropped so significantly during the Red Year that rumors suggested they were all but extinct. But as Lucius concentrated his scrye to its most accurate extent, he saw something odd: the colors were actually _mixing_ with one another, forming something different altogether.

That was _not_ supposed to happen.

_Unless … No._

But he knew there could be no other explanation.

"A hybrid vampire," Lucius breathed, as he released the scrye. Now it all made sense; the two bloodlines inside Malys had meshed together to such an extent that they were almost indistinguishable. Extremely dominant ones, too—the Volkihar were powerful in every respect, but the bodies of the Quarra were physically stronger than the other vampire clans of Morrowind, perhaps more so than even the Volkihar themselves. Vampirism strains were not mutually compatible in the same body—if one was stronger than the other, then the weaker bloodline would be smothered, forced out. But two bloodlines as strong as these … Lucius could not believe he was thinking this, but he almost felt _pity_ for this vampire. A battle between Quarra blood and Volkihar blood was a struggle he wasn't sure he wanted to be caught between, even less so in his own body.

_How had this vampire survived such hell?!_

"By the skin of my teeth," Malys replied, when Lucius put the question to her. "I had to sleep for two hundred years to fight the effects as much as I could—and even then I wasn't unscathed. If I hadn't slept for so long, there's no doubt I'd have lost more than just my mind. But I'm better now—my memories have been restored, my mind is whole once again, and I finally know why I am what I am."

"But why would they do such a thing?" Lucius wanted to know. "A vampire would have no reason to knowingly convert another vampire! Why would they make you what you already were?"

Malys scoffed. "What difference does it make? The Ashlander with the Quarra strain bit me first—the Volkihar never came until I'd settled in Windhelm. So if the idea ever occurred to you, then I'm sorry to disappoint. I'm not the result of some tenuous alliance, nor am I some mad experiment gone horribly wrong. All that happened was the Volkihar vampire made an amateur mistake—and Malys Aryon paid the price."

Truthfully, Lucius hadn't thought about the idea of a vampire alliance—though in hindsight, the prospect of such an event would constitute a severe threat to Tamriel—perhaps even beyond. But the Volkihar did not make mistakes—not in his experience. They wouldn't have attacked Malys without a very good reason.

But that was neither here nor there—that much he could agree with. Lucius had found out what he wanted to know, and now he could prepare accordingly—after he had decided what to do about this hybrid vampire. He didn't want to kill her—not yet. But neither could she remain undead.

_Trust in Meridia_, his own words echoed in Carcette's voice.

"The way I see it," Lucius finally said, "you have two choices right now. You can surrender, and come with me. Between Skyrim and Morrowind lies a valley; a few … old acquaintances of mine live within."

"What kind of _acquaintances_?" Malys sounded uneasy.

"Vampire hunters, much like myself," Lucius said—they had _that_ in common, that much he knew, and that was all he needed. "You have my word that they will not kill you," he assured her, but his smile widened all the same. "If we're as alike as I suspect, though, then I don't doubt they'd be eager to see what _makes you tick_."

Malys growled, an inhuman sound—feral, even. "Or I could just do the same to you," she hissed. "I think you'd make a much better meal than a nest of Falmer!"

Lucius ignored the threat—he'd expected nothing less from such a violent creature. "_Or_," he spoke up, "perhaps a more _peaceful_ alternative is in order."

He reached in his pocket, and pulled out a dark violet crystal the size of his hand. It wobbled slightly in his palm as he showed it to Malys—as if something small, invisible—and very, very angry—was inside, throwing itself against its metaphysical prison in a futile attempt to escape. He tightened his grip on the object.

"This is a black soul gem," Lucius explained. "Inside is all that remains of the necromancer Malkoran, who corrupted Meridia's shrine with his creations. I purified her temple, slew Malkoran at Mount Kilkreath, and trapped his soul inside this gem." His lips curled in a smirk again. "Poetic justice is a wonderful thing sometimes."

Malys did not sound impressed. "And you're showing me this because … ?"

Lucius cleared his throat. "There is a man in Morthal, far to the west—a Redguard, formerly of your College. Go to him, and present him with this gem. He may be willing to cure your vampirism."

Malys said nothing.

"The two of us have nothing in common," Lucius said. "We're as different as night and day. But that doesn't mean we are beyond reason with each other. I hold no ill will for you, Malys Aryon—only for what you have become."

The seconds stretched into minutes before Lucius felt his hand lighten; Malys had taken the black soul gem from his hands. He felt his heart rise as well, as if the gem had weighed on his soul just as it had on his palm. Trapping a person's soul—even if it belonged to a necromancer—was one of the hardest things he'd done. He had not been asked to do so, but his hatred of Malkoran had been such that he'd believed even Meridia's punishment had not been enough—or barring that, that an eternity of being imprisoned inside a soul gem would make him somewhat remorseful. All things considered, it was good, to see this soul gem finally being used for something good.

And then Lucius felt his stomach dissolve as he heard a crunching noise, like glass. A faint, tiny screaming could be heard on the wind. Immediately Lucius knew the soul gem had been destroyed; as he rounded upon Malys, he further noticed that the vampire had actually _crushed_ it in her hand. He heard tiny chunks of dark crystal tinkling as they fell to the road, and if he strained his ears, he could hear Malkoran's tortured soul gave one last wail of pain as it disappeared forever.

Lucius stared at Malys as though she'd gone mad. "Why?" he could only manage to say.

"'The two of us have nothing in common,'" Malys echoed. "'We're as different as night and day.' But you're wrong, Lucius. It may be that you—and everyone like you—despise me, because you also despise my kind. You hate the vampire." She drew closer to Lucius, and the priest could feel her freezing breath on his face. "But we do have _something_ in common. You and I are at the forefront of the vampire's way of life. You _write_ about the vampire, you _experiment_ on the vampire. As for myself, however … I have chosen to _embrace_ the vampire."

_What—?!_

"I told you I paid a price for becoming what I am," Malys said icily. "I never said I didn't regret paying it. You have no idea how _good_ this power makes me feel, Lucius—you can't even imagine. I like what I am—and I won't have it stolen from me by the likes of you."

She laughed. "But I appreciate your offer all the same. Soul gems aren't as filling for me as fresh blood—but this Malkoran certainly came close. After leeching _his_ soul from that gem, I don't think I'll need to feed for the rest of the week." She paused for a moment. "Of course, if you're willing to prove me wrong … "

Again Lucius' hand flew to his blade, preparing for battle—but again, Meridia's voice stayed him a while longer.

_This is not the time or the place, champion_, the Daedra Lord declared. _She is a threat to this world, it is true—and her taint will be cleansed in good time. But the thread of her un-life does not end this day; she has at least one more part to play before she faces her end. To change her fate at this crossing would be unwise._

Lucius knew he could not contradict his Lady, but her words still made him uneasy. Very rarely had Meridia ever commanded him to stay his hand—least of all for a vampire with such powerful and deadly potential as this one.

_Trust in Meridia_, Carcette's voice spoke again.

_Very well_, he thought. But this did not mean he would shirk in his responsibilities. To be honest, if he was to destroy this vampire in the future—and he hoped dearly he would be the one to do it—Lucius had a lot of ground to make up in that regard. He would need to prepare.

And so he released his grip on Dawnbreaker, and resumed his journey to a destination he did not know. He had long since stopped worrying about the wheres and the whys of his profession. Meridia would guide his steps, as she had done for years—and that was enough for her faithful priest.

As he drew level with Malys, he stopped, and spoke softly to her. "I will spare your life this one time, vampire," he said. "But know that as long as you walk Tamriel in this form, you are a danger to her people—and I will be preparing every waking moment of my life for facing you at last."

Lucius made as if to walk away, but a thought occurred to him, and he stopped. "And keep your claws off my daughter," he said warningly. He did not wait for a reply, or any reaction from Malys at all; he hitched up his robe, and set off down the road.

He did not look back.

* * *

Mistress Malys did not take Her eyes off lucius until he had disappeared over the ridge; She saw vinye and cosette out of the corner of Her eye, likewise staying where they were, even though the danger had long since passed.

Once the last trace of his golden-brown robe had shrunk to nothingness, the two mages finally joined Her.

"What was all that about?" cosette asked.

Malys fought the urge to laugh; the breton had heard nothing. she was still in the dark about Her true nature, and as much as She wanted to find out how cosette would react to this news, She thought it might be more entertaining for her to discover the truth for herself. As for vinye … Malys knew She could count on the elf's silence. But She also knew vinye did not like surprises, and suspected the altmer would rat her out to cosette if it suited her best interests.

"It was nothing," Mistress Malys lied with a faint little smile. "It's all water under the bridge now. We won't need to worry about Meridia or her priests anymore."

All the same, though, as they resumed their journey back to Winterhold, Malys couldn't help but think about lucius' so-called "associates." Whoever they were, they sounded like an organization best left alone … for now.

As for lucius' daughter … Mistress Malys could not remember ever meeting any woman from Cyrodiil, not even with the fullness of her memories restored to Her. So why in Oblivion would lucius tell her to stay away from her? Was he simply being a protective father—or was she herself a vampire hunter as well?

"Come on, Malys!" vinye called out to her. she and cosette were already a house-length ahead of her, and the Dunmer hurried to catch up. All thoughts of lucius and his daughter were forgotten—it was time to go home.

She did not look back.

* * *

_Winterhold_

_The next day_

After resting at the secluded Nightgate Inn, the three mages had resumed their return trek to the College at the break of dawn. They walked in relative silence, and very little troubled them on the way. That did not stop them from feeling on edge, though; Vinye had no doubt that Malys was worse off than herself and Cosette in that regard.

Thankfully, the tensest moment in their journey constituted a few sidelong glances from the Stormcloak garrison in Fort Kastav. They were too far away from it to see their faces or hear them talking, so Vinye took that as a good sign, and motioned the others to move on.

They reached the footbridge to the College as the sun was approaching its zenith; Vinye was grateful that no dragons were around to spoil the unusually good weather. Idly, she wondered if the Arch-Mage had something to do with it—Vinye had seen the power of Grimnir's Dragonborn magic for himself; no doubt his Voice could dispel a storm just as easily as it could create one.

As they entered the Courtyard of the College, Vinye noticed an unusually large number of people standing in the area. She recognized most of the staff, and a few of the scholars that frequented the Arcaneum as well. But most of them she didn't even recognize—were there that many students here? Perhaps some of them were only part-time, or attended only when it suited them. J'zargo had said the College wasn't as structured as other schools of magic, and Vinye herself had only just enrolled two weeks ago—but still, to see so many of them was a little unnerving.

J'zargo and Tolfdir chose that moment to step forward. Both of them were flanking Arch-Mage Grimnir—and in spite of the air of authority they carried, all three of them looked deeply disturbed about something. Nowhere was this more evident than J'zargo—the Khajiit's narrowed eyes contrasted sharply with his normally boisterous demeanor.

"We've been waiting for you," he said perfunctorily, his mustache barely moving as he spoke.

"Good morning to you, too," Cosette said sarcastically. "I hope you didn't miss us _too_ much."

"We're very glad to see you all are safe," Grimnir said from beneath his iron mask. "Urag told us where you were this past week—I will assume your being _here_ means you found what you were looking for?"

Vinye nodded, though she was still wary; if Urag had told Grimnir everything, then surely he must know about—

"We're not in trouble, are we?" Malys asked. "I know you said Dwemer research was banned, but you gave us your permission, didn't you? If—"

Vinye had to hand it to Grimnir—only the Dragonborn had the courage to stare a powerful vampire into silence.

"That depends on your definition of 'we' and 'trouble,'" Grimnir said. "Tolfdir, if you would."

The Master Wizard raised his hand, which was glowing a pale shade of orange. A second later, Vinye, Cosette, and Malys felt the contents of their packs straining at the seams. One second after that, the sackcloth burst under the pressure, and the three mages watched in awe and helplessness as potions, ingredients, jewelry and treasure—and all the Dwarven artifacts they'd found over the course of this week—floated through the air towards Tolfdir.

Malys yelped in protest as Wraithguard was wrenched off her arms by the invisible force. "Hey!"

The old Nord telekinetically sifted through the mages' belongings for a few seconds before levitating Sunder, Wraithguard, the three shards of Aetherium, and what Vinye assumed was Spellbreaker to his feet. Everything else drifted down to the stone walkway, sorted into neat little piles.

"I believe that's everything, Arch-Mage," Tolfdir declared, seemingly satisfied with his work. "I'll take these down to the Midden." He piled the artifacts onto Spellbreaker like it was nothing more than a glorified serving platter.

"What is going on here?" Cosette burst out. "We were going to hand them over to you, anyway! Why—?!" Vinye elbowed her in the ribs; hard enough that the Breton would at least hear Grimnir out as to what he was doing.

"She has a point," Vinye said before Cosette could protest any further. "Did something happen while we were away? What's with all these people? And why did you feel the need to strong-arm us into giving up something we worked ourselves to the bone in order to find?" She already suspected Grimnir had a good reason—in fact, Vinye suspected she already knew what that reason might be—but Dragonborn or no Dragonborn, she'd be damned if she'd let him get away without an answer.

At length, the Arch-Mage relaxed his posture somewhat. "I suggest you all come with me," he said. "After all, a great deal of this has happened because of _your_ efforts."

Vinye did not like the way that rusted mask seemed to be looking at _her_ specifically.

Before she could say anything further, Grimnir turned on his heel, and made for the Hall of Attainment. J'zargo and Tolfdir followed in his wake, and Vinye, Cosette, and Malys hurried behind them after they'd collected the remainder of their belongings.

Grimnir never paused in his step, using the same telekinetic spell as Tolfdir to push open the heavy doors with a loud bang. He passed the glowing fountain in the center of the hall, heading for the staircase—but not for the stairs themselves, Vinye saw. Instead, there was a trapdoor under the stairs, large enough for a fairly thin person to squeeze through. The six mages wedged themselves inside—the twin swords strapped across Cosette's back gave her some difficulty—and proceeded down a ladder leading to a damp, badly lit hallway.

"This is the Midden," Grimnir told them. "The lowest levels of the College in more ways than one—it's a dumping ground for forbidden experiments and exceptionally dangerous magic. Not all those experiments were successful—so I suggest you stay alert."

He murmured a few words under his breath; Vinye thought she saw a faint red glow from beneath his hood, but if it had ever existed, it was gone as quickly as it had come. Grimnir then motioned them to move ahead, casting a candlelight spell with a snap of his fingers, covering the stone halls in bright white light.

Vinye wished he hadn't done that—while she was confident in Grimnir's knowledge of this place, she'd felt better off not seeing all the disturbing decorations in the Midden. Skulls were nailed to the walls, framed by outstretched arms and hands that creaked in the draft, and covered in symbols she did not recognize. Entire skeletons—both animal and human—were strewn about in several chambers in circles, warped and contorted in impossible positions. They, too, were covered in blasphemous runes; Vinye swore blind that some of them had even been carved into their bones, slicing into the marrow as if it was mere flesh. She gave an involuntary shudder.

Finally, Grimnir stopped in the largest chamber yet. The walls were lined with large bulging sacks—at least a dozen of them—and Vinye took from the half dozen imposing-looking men in gleaming steel armor that whatever was inside these sacks was either very valuable, or very dangerous. She was leaning towards the latter; though it might be a trick of Grimnir's candlelight, it almost looked like the contents of the sacks were _glowing_ slightly as well.

"What's in those sacks?" she asked.

"Solyn's payment for Keening, as per our deal," replied Grimnir. "As you can see, it is … considerable."

Vinye raised her eyebrows. _That … is a _lot_ of gold_.

Malys face lit up eagerly, and she made as if to run to one of the sacks. Grimnir, however, had apparently already anticipated her. "There's no need to count it all out, Miss Malys," he said, raising his voice only slightly. "Besides, with this new information coming to light, I'd rather be safe than sorry."

Vinye nodded to herself. _I knew it_. "Then Urag must have told you about the letter from Drevis?"

"He did," said Grimnir. "I've recalled Drevis from Solstheim as well; he should be here within two days' time. Until he can confirm for himself that the contents of these bags are genuine, or if they're not part of some larger trap—this gold isn't changing any hands at all. It stays in the Midden under armed guard." He indicated the half-dozen armored men inside the chamber. "And the same goes for your Dwarven artifacts as well."

Vinye saw Tolfdir shift a few bags aside with his telekinesis, tucking the fruits of the mages' labors in an unobtrusive spot, then shifting the bags aside where they wouldn't be noticed.

"What about all those people out there?" Cosette inquired. "Are they new students?"

"They are," J'zargo said. "The graveness of matters aside, this one envies you three for what you have helped to do. For too long the influence and prestige of this College has been crumbling like the cliff on which it stands. But word is spreading of our deal with the one who calls himself Solyn. Many come to us, seeking riches and power." He huffed under his breath. "Too many rivals for Khajiit. J'zargo must be stronger, more learned in the arcane arts. Less competition that way, less men who would seek money over magic—but better rivalries, better students."

_Competition_. Vinye stiffened as she recalled the words of the thief Rolega. "There was something else I think you ought to know, Arch-Mage," she told Grimnir. "I question whether the source is sound, but I've heard that Solyn might not be the only one in Skyrim who's searching for Dwemer artifacts."

"I already know about the College of Whispers inside Avanchnzel," said Grimnir.

"This is different, sir," Vinye insisted. "I'm not talking about a legitimate institution. There are private collectors out there who are just as interested in these artifacts as Solyn is. And somehow I don't think they'll have any compunction about taking these artifacts by force—not to mention all the money Solyn paid us for Keening."

The iron mask tilted slightly to one side. "I see," Grimnir said entirely too calmly.

J'zargo growled. "This one did tell you. We were right to keep these artifacts to ourselves," he said to Grimnir.

"I'm not so sure, J'zargo," mused the Arch-Mage. "Word travels fast in Skyrim; I don't doubt that any scholar worth his salt knows about what's been going on here. They're going to notice the influx of prospective students, which will lead to a great deal of questions in and of itself."

"And that would lead them to hear about both our coffers and our artifacts," Vinye agreed. "If they're greedy enough—and if they're confident enough—they might try to take them by force."

The Khajiit waved a paw in disdain. "Collectors and mercenaries, feh! J'zargo has more magic in his little claw than such men. Let them come—we will send them away with empty hands!"

"I've met a few mercenaries in my time, J'zargo," Grimnir said evenly. "We'd do well to be prepared for the worst." He turned to Tolfdir. "I'm going to write to Calcelmo. I may need some more of those guards of his to keep watch down here."

The iron mask then rounded on the mages. "As for you three, I commend you for your efforts in recovering these artifacts—perhaps if the situation was different, I would see to it that you were compensated for your troubles as well." He sighed. "Until then, however, under no circumstances are we to carry out any communication with this Solyn. There will be no more couriers, and there will be no more deliveries sent to the ruins of Rkund."

"What about our search?" asked Malys. "We had several more leads we thought might be worth looking into."

Grimnir said nothing. Vinye would have given anything to know what was going on under that iron mask.

"They've already proved themselves capable mages, if I say so myself," Tolfdir asserted. "Even you never went inside a Dwemer ruin on your own, Arch-Mage."

Vinye found it very difficult to keep her composure; Tolfdir's claim had suddenly made her so giddy she felt like she could fly. She had ventured inside Raldbthar alone, while the Dragonborn himself had not? Was Tolfdir suggesting that Vinye was more powerful than even a living Nordic legend?

"There are older and fouler things in the world than the creations of the dwarves, Master Tolfdir," J'zargo said. "And Grimnir has faced _them_ alone."

Grimnir laughed. "J'zargo, I'm surprised at you. You're not afraid they're going to challenge you one of these days, are you?"

A hearty little laugh was shared by all—even J'zargo grudgingly joined in after a while. "Khajiit _always_ welcomes a challenge," he boasted.

Grimnir cleared his throat. "Well, I see no reason to keep you three away from your present assignment," he told the novices. "But after you've finished following your leads, I am ordering you to return to the College posthaste with whatever artifacts you have found."

Vinye nodded.

"Hold on. What about this Calcelmo you mentioned?" Cosette cut in. "I know the name—I spent some time in Markarth when I was younger. But it sounds like these guards are on his payroll. How do you know they won't turn on us?"

Grimnir said nothing for a few seconds. "Unlike Solyn, Calcelmo is a _recognized_ scholar of the Dwemer," he said coolly. "His choice of guards may be less than _ideal_, but he is trustworthy. He also owes me a favor; I assisted him with the excavation of Nchuand-Zel under Markarth several years ago, and he's never quite been able to return the favor until now."

That seemed to placate Cosette, who merely shrugged.

"Now, if that will be all," Grimnir said, "I'd like a few words with Vinye, and then you can return to your duties."

Cosette and Malys frowned. "Don't worry," the Altmer reassured them—doing her best not to betray her own nervousness. "I'll meet you in the Arcaneum when I'm done."

The two novices reluctantly nodded, and made their way out of the Midden behind Tolfdir and J'zargo. None of them noticed Malys linger suspiciously close to one of the sacks of money than she ought to be standing. But she was there for only a few seconds before continuing on her way.

That left Vinye alone with the Dragonborn and the men that guarded the Midden.

Once the mages had departed, Grimnir turned to Vinye—he'd switched out his iron mask for his orange-brown one. "You need to be very careful from here on out, Vinye," he said solemnly.

"Tell me something I don't already know," Vinye sighed. "Um … sir," she hastily added.

"I'm not talking about these unconfirmed threats of other dwarven collectors," Grimnir said dismissively. "I don't know what you've gotten yourself involved with, but I can see that glow in your eyes. Whatever you've set off to be a part of, it's bigger than you could possibly imagine. And if you aren't careful, it _will_ destroy you."

The elf swallowed. "Are you talking about those Aetherium shards?" she asked.

The mask tilted slightly. "No—but it can certainly apply in this case as well," said the Arch-Mage. "I won't claim to be a mind-reader, Vinye. But I know what it's like to seek power, knowledge, what have you. When you have the soul of a dragon, as I do, that quest can turn into an obsession. And when I look into your eyes, I see the same thing happening to you. I see _myself_."

Grimnir slowly clutched his mask and pulled it off his face, and then he pulled down the hood of his robes so that Vinye could properly see the Dragonborn for the first time—and she clapped a hand to her mouth in horror.

The sight was horrendous, and yet she could not stop staring at the ravaged, hairless scalp before her, at the scarred skin pulled tight over so many wounds Vinye soon lost count. One whole side of the Arch-Mage's face had been ravaged by mage-fire, and cracked blisters wide as a septim covered the empty socket where his right eye should have been. The rest of his face was no different; the entire left cheek was sunken and shredded in a hundred different places, dangling limply below his remaining electric-blue eye. To top off the grotesque display, Grimnir's right ear had a sizable chunk missing, while his left ear was nothing more than a blackened stump; Vinye dreaded to think of the strength of the lightning magic that had done _that_.

She suppressed a shudder as Grimnir leaned in close to her. "You are not Dragonborn," he said; without the mask, his voice sounded much more raspy, like he'd just aged thirty years. "And while you are an accomplished mage in your own right, that makes it even more dangerous for you. I know you've talked to Septimus, and I also know the master he serves. But most important of all—I know the kind of deals that that particular Daedra has made with mortals, and I therefore urge you to think very carefully about the choices you make in your life. If you don't … well, at best, I'd wager you'd end up like me." He pointed to his scarred head.

Vinye gulped. "And … at worst?"

Grimnir's voice was cold enough to make being around Malys feel like paradise. "Then one of us is going to die."

Before, Vinye's joyous mood had merely ground to a screeching halt after seeing what was under Grimnir's mask. But now her euphoria had been blasted into cinders, and she felt an icy terror seep into her veins like thousands of needles. Had the Arch-Mage just made an open death threat against her—against one of his own students?!

It surprised her how quickly she recovered from the shock. "Y-yes, well," she stammered, speaking a bit more flippantly than she thought was possible, given the circumstances, "I'll make sure to keep my wits about me, the next time I see any slimy tentacles where there shouldn't be." She attempted a weak chuckle.

Grimnir grunted as he replaced his gray mask, allowing Vinye a moment of relief as the awful wounds were hidden once more. "Just as long as we're clear on that end," he said. "Now, about this … Aetherium, did you call it?" His hand glowed orange, and the three shards floated towards him as though they were guided on invisible strings.

Grimnir studied them for a few seconds, the Aetherium hovering telekinetically in front of his mask. Every so often, he mumbled to himself, too quietly for Vinye to hear. After a few minutes, the Arch-Mage snapped his fingers, and the three crystalline fragments converged on each other in midair.

"Did you play with puzzles as a child, Vinye?" Grimnir asked her.

"No, sir," she replied. "My mother and father were a little more … _practical_ in their approach to my education." She grit her teeth, and forced all thoughts of the butcher she'd once called her father out of her head.

Grimnir sounded pensive. "There are three pieces, all of them roughly shaped like half a circle," he explained. "Already that should tell you these pieces have more in common than what they're made up of. But look at the extrusions on some of these pieces. Two of them are symmetrical, while the other is not. So … "

Grimnir's fingers twitched a little, and the pieces of Aetherium drew closer still. The two that Grimnir had deemed to be symmetrical rested one on top of the other, forming a perfectly circular edge. But that wasn't all—the two extrusions fit together perfectly.

And as Vinye watched open-mouthed in silent awe, Grimnir manipulated the third shard to the right of the formation; a bit of shuffling around, and all three pieces fit together seamlessly—except for a rough section to the left of the shard he'd just affixed—and that one imperfection told Vinye everything.

_There's only one more piece left to find_.

"As I said," Grimnir replied after a while. "It's a puzzle … a very perplexing one as well … "

Vinye had no reply.

* * *

The Altmer had been reluctant to reclaim the assembled shards of Aetherium after her conversation with Grimnir. But in spite of—or perhaps because of—the knowledge that the three of them fit so snugly together raised a great deal more questions in her mind than Grimnir had answered.

What _was_ Aetherium? Vinye pondered as she ascended the stairs to the Arcaneum. Where had the dwarves found something so resilient and powerful—and what, if anything, was powerful enough to carve it so precisely?

And that was to say nothing of the Arch-Mage's sudden interest in Vinye. Had the Dragonborn run afoul of the same nightmarish entity she'd seen under the sea? Was that where he'd received those horrifying wounds?

The questions continued to vex her even as she halfheartedly flipped through the pages of book after book with Vinye and Cosette. Grimnir's refusal to back Solyn in his research had taken most of the wind out of everyone's sails, but there was still the matter of Volendrung to look forward to.

After a little more than an hour's worth of poring through the stacks, Cosette finally came across something promising. She waved over to Vinye and Malys, who immediately rushed to join her.

"I think I found it," explained the Breton, pointing to the dog-eared pages of the tome in her hand. "'_The Hammer of Might, Volendrung is said to have been created by the Dwemer of the now abandoned clan of Rourken, … it is best known for the paralyzing and strength-leeching effects it has when cast at an enemy. Like the Dwarves who created it, Volendrung is prone to disappearing suddenly, resurfacing sometimes in days, sometimes in eons._'"

Malys sighed. "Well, at least we know _what_ it is. But where can we find something like that?"

Vinye stole a look at the librarian, and recalled Grimnir's words to her. "Urag might know," she said. "Let's ask him." They headed over to the Orc's desk.

The Orc peered up from his book, and glared at the approaching mages with a bored look on his face. "What do you want?" he grunted.

"We wanted to ask about an artifact called Volendrung," Vinye said. "The Arch-Mage said you could help us out."

The Orc's bushy white eyebrows furrowed. "Volendrung, eh?" he asked, and then he chuckled. "Well, Grimnir sure got that right. Who better to go to than an Orc to ask about the Daedric artifact of Malacath?"

Cosette blanched. "Daedric artifact?" she repeated. Her round face deflated a little, like bread that had risen just a bit too quickly.

"Aye," Urag answered. "Malacath represents the spurned and the ostracized. His followers were once elves that served the god Trinimac, but when Boethiah transformed Trinimac into Malacath, those elves were transformed with him. They became the Orsimer—the 'pariah folk.'

"As for Volendrung"—Urag leaned back in his seat, which creaked noisily under him—"legend has it the head of the Rourken clan threw Volendrung into the sun, and he told the clan they would settle wherever it landed. The dwarves followed the hammer to the isle of Stros M'Kai, and made their home on the island—and the land around them came to be called Volenfell—where the hammer fell."

"Hammerfell," said Malys half to herself—recognizing the connection between the legend of Volendrung and the largely arid region south and west of Skyrim.

"Where does Malacath fit in all this?" Vinye asked.

The Orc shrugged. "No one's really sure—especially since Malacath is traditionally opposed to the Dwemer. There used to be a popular theory that because the Rourken exiled themselves from their own people, the hammer came to symbolize Malacath for that same reason—and therefore, whoever found Volendrung would find his favor. But some Orcs have it in their heads that Malacath himself battled the Rourken chief and defeated him at some point in time, and took Volendrung for his own."

"Where is Volendrung now?"

Urag glared at Cosette with an annoyed look. "I'd be up all night telling you why that doesn't even make any sense," he said bluntly. "Daedric artifacts don't last long on Mundus. Eventually, they fade away into Oblivion and stay there—until for whatever reason, one of the Daedra decides to send it back and repeat the process. Frankly, your best option would be to go to Malacath himself—and _good luck_," he laughed, showing his tusks in a sneer.

Cosette groaned. "I was hoping you wouldn't say that," she said through her teeth.

"There's that—or you could go to one of their strongholds in the mountains," said Urag. "There's four in Skyrim that I know of, and they're all a ways from here. There's one to the west of Riften that's supposed to have an actual shrine to Malacath inside. I'd start there if I were—"

Urag stopped rambling for a few seconds, and then let off a short bark of a laugh. "Ha! But you're not blood-kin, are you?"

"Blood-what, now?" asked a confused Malys.

Vinye knew what that meant. "Orcs don't like outsiders much," she told the Dunmer. "They like to keep to themselves. Blood-Kin is their catchall term for the few outsiders they deem trustworthy enough to let inside. But usually you have to _really_ help them out in order to … "

Vinye's voice trailed off into nothingness—she'd just had an idea. "Urag," she asked, "how well connected are you to the strongholds?"

The Orc's glowering look faded a little. "Not very much," he said. "But I don't think that matters—not for what I wondering you might have in mind, anyway. I'm assuming you got that _other_ errand of yours taken care off?"

Vinye nodded, but said nothing further.

Urag mumbled to himself for a minute, apparently thinking something over in his head. After a few moments, he reached in his robe, and pulled out a particularly jagged-looking dagger with a greenish-gray blade. "Hold out your hand," he instructed, nodding to each of the mages in turn. They did so.

As Urag grasped her open palm in one hand and the dagger in the other, Vinye realized with a gasp what the Orc was about to do, and immediately braced herself for the worst. But to her slight surprise, there was only a slight twinge of pain—the extreme tip of the blade was sharpened such that it passed through her flesh with impunity, and it did not bleed nearly as much as the Altmer thought it would.

"Let the scars heal naturally," Urag told her. "If you use a healing spell, you'll seal it up too fast, and no one'll be be able to see the scar when they get a good look at you." He wiped up the paltry drops of blood with a dirty cloth. "Congratulations," he said, with only a trace of sarcasm in his voice. "I've just named you Blood-Kin to the Orcs."

For just a moment, Vinye thought that tusked mouth of Urag's might have twisted into a smile. But just when she thought she'd seen it, it was gone, and the librarian was back to his old, abrasive self.

"Now pick up the mess you made back there before I change my mind," he grunted, waving them off dismissively and returning to the tome in his hands.

The three mages slowly looked over their shoulders at the mountain of books they'd piled on their table over the past hour. Cosette muttered something incomprehensible under her breath, and stole a dark glance at Vinye.

"Don't look at me," the Altmer said defensively as she began organizing part of the pile into its own neat stack. "It's not my fault I got rewarded for taking some initiative, is it?"

Cosette huffed. "I'm just wondering why he didn't mark us all as Blood-Kin. Urag's bound to know we've all been a big help to the College. Honestly, I've half a mind to call nepotism on this."

Vinye said nothing. It was possible that Cosette might have a point; she didn't see any logical reason why Urag hadn't marked the Breton as he had Vinye. The same was true for Malys—but that she wasn't marked either was a stroke of luck; Vinye had no idea if vampires bled any differently from humans—or even if they bled at all.

"So what kind of initiative _did_ you take?" Malys piped up, as she finished her own stack and began sorting through the titles. "You said you have to help Orcs out in order to be Blood-Kin. So what did you do for Urag?"

"He asked me to make a delivery before I set out to Raldbthar and found Sunder," Vinye said. She decided not to tell them about the specifics of the delivery, never mind what she'd seen inside that iceberg; if she was honest, the Altmer doubted they'd believe her anyway. The knowledge of an Elder Scroll and a Daedric Prince out of the blue—they'd think she was insane!

"Must've been some kind of delivery," Cosette muttered, but she said nothing further.

The three mages continued on in silence. As they packed and reshelved book after book, Vinye allowed her mind to dwell on the multitude of thoughts rushing chaotically through her head.

There were three pieces of Aetherium to their credit, out of a possible four … _The Aetherium Wars_ had mentioned the ruins of Arkngthamz, said to be located in the southern Reach … Was it possible that—

"Cosette?" Vinye asked, breaking the silence. "How well do you know the Reach?"

Cosette smirked. "Like the back of my hand," she boasted, flexing her scarred arm to drive the point home. "Why?"

It was Vinye's turn to break into a rare smile. "Because I might know where to find one more of those crystal shards … "

* * *

_Somewhere in the Rift_

The three bandits never knew what happened to them.

One moment, the dwarven ruins where they had made their camp had been relatively peaceful, the silence of the night interrupted only by the hoot of an owl, or the chirp of a nearby cricket. The next, the world had exploded in a thousand shades of brown, and the cool night air had turned into a thick, choking miasma around them.

Only when the last of the marauders had gasped out his last breath did Solyn finally lower his gloved hand. The churning clouds that engulfed the ruins dissipated swiftly, and scattered with a half-hearted wave as the bandit toppled dead at his feet, the iron mace clanging on the stone.

The wizard took his time walking through the ruins, analyzing every last bit of metal and stone that he could see. There were none of the Dwemer's iconic towers here, but the stairs and smooth worn floors had still survived the centuries. Solyn pushed aside a crude bone chime that the ruin's former occupants had rigged from an archway to warn them of intruders—but not, he reflected, of wizards like him.

The first time he had learned of this place, it had been purely by accident. Solyn had been browsing the bits of books in Rkund that were still legible enough to read, and one of them had mentioned this place as one of particular importance to the dwarves. Exactly why it was important had been lost to the ages—but as Solyn approached a dais that overlooked the rest of the otherwise unremarkable ruin, he immediately knew from the object perched in the exact center of the platform that his journey had not been in vain.

Solyn rested his hands on the thin metal bands of the sculpture, and ran his finger through the perfectly round groove in the center of the plinth. Something was clearly designed to fit inside, he noted. But what could it be—and more to the point, what purpose did it serve?

He laid his hands on the pedestal, and concentrated on the imagery of the ruins that he'd taken, allowing them to occupy the foremost place in his mind. "_Meht hekem, quam iya … tayem-hekem, seht cess payem,"_ he chanted under his breath. _ "Meht ayem, roht koht … bedt-tayem-hekem, ayem, lyr-hefhed-tayem!"_

The circular platform beneath him glowed violet for a few seconds as the rune took shape around its circumference, and then faded into the stone. Solyn gave it only a few moments of his attention; he knew it would be perfect—it had to be. But his only concern now was the mystery of this ruin. Too much of it was eroded and decayed to be of any further use now—why, only been that one book in all of Rkund had given any insight as to its very _existence_!

For now, Solyn knew that information—along with what he had gained tonight—would have to suffice. He would make his way back to Rkund, and research this site to the extent of the forgotten city's archives. Now that he had marked the ruins for himself, returning here would be easy.

"_Roht ekem, cess ayem, do-lyr_," he whispered. "_Roht-koht yoodt, neht-doht meht_."

A column of swirling purple fire consumed him, and Solyn had vanished as though he'd never set foot in this place.

* * *

_Eastmarch_

Mzulft was already far behind them now, and the volcanic steppes were giving way to the forests of the Rift. Now that they were becoming more and more familiar with the roads of eastern Skyrim, the novices' journey was taking much less time than they'd anticipated. It was only the three of them, but even without two senior staff of the College accompanying them, they were making surprisingly good headway, considering it had only been a day and a half after they had left Winterhold.

"We've made a name for ourselves," Cosette said boldly after passing the mountain where those bandits had once ambushed them, and not seeing an outlaw in sight. "Not in _that_ way," she added, after Vinye gave her a look. "I mean bandits and thugs and those people. I'm just saying they're scared of us, that's all."

"News travels fast," Vinye remarked. "Someone's bound to listen in and find out why they're so scared—and they could find out who we are."

"Well, we've been lucky so far," Malys agreed. "I actually ran into a mercenary not too far from here last week, and he didn't seem to care all that much about the Dwemer. I was able to convince him to travel alongside and help find Wraithguard for me, but I don't know if I'll be that lucky again."

Cosette grinned. "Some standards he had, with your face the way it is."

Malys growled, but the effort was only half-hearted, and Cosette saw the Dunmer's lips curl up in a thin smile—the only part of Malys she could see, owing to the overlarge black robes covering her face and armor.

"I don't need to present myself like a bitch in heat to gain the favor of a _mercenary_," Malys said in a falsely sweet voice. "He only agreed because I was carrying some dwarven weapons with me from a storeroom near Mzulft. I sold them and gave him the money." She sighed. "He was worth every septim, too—if it wasn't for him, I might not be alive. But he was the one who died instead."

Cosette was prepared to make another joke at Malys' expense, but the tone of the dark elf's voice at this last bit of information suggested that perhaps this mercenary—whoever he was—really had lost his life inside whatever ruin Malys had ventured into.

"How did he die?" she asked. "Did he step on a pressure plate or something, trigger a trap?"

Malys shook her head. "Worse," she answered. "It was—"

And then she stopped. She held up her palm over her eyes, appearing to scan the road ahead.

"Someone's coming," she said, her voice low. "Looks like … four people. Three of them look armed."

Vinye tensed. "We'd better get off the road," she whispered. "It could be bandits—or worse." She pointed to the left; a sizable bush was growing near the shoulder. "Hide behind there!"

They hurried off the road—not running outright; that would surely attract their attention. Once they'd hid behind the bush, the three mages peered through the leaves as the figures came into greater detail.

Two of them strode up the road at a fair clip, one behind the other, while the other two men brought up the rear, and walked side by side. All of these three were armored head to toe; the one in front wore Nordic-looking armor with many swirls and animal motifs carved into it. As for the others, one was clad in steel plate; his companion, a very battered-looking set of iron that nonetheless looked as though it could withstand the jaws of a dragon.

It was the fourth figure among them, however, that garnered their attention. He was a mage in burgundy robes: a Dunmer, with dark red eyes and bushy black hair. The way he carried himself told Cosette he was confident to a fault—and someone of importance as well, if those armored men with him were any indication.

She held her breath as the four men drew level with the bush they were hiding under, and slowly reached for her Forsworn blades.

And then the blade of a massive claymore sunk into the bush, barely inches from her face. She yelped, and scurried back several feet.

"Out," rumbled the owner of the huge sword—the man in steel plate; another Breton, judging by the accent. "On your feet. All of you."

Cosette's heart was thundering as she stood up from the bush, weapons drawn. Vinye and Malys followed suit, their fingers sizzling with sparks and freezing air. She remembered what the Altmer had said about competition as they had left Whiterun. Was it possible that these people were looking for Dwemer relics, too?

"You're not very good bandits, are you?" said the Dunmer. "I'll give you credit for that timing on your ambush—you must have the eyes of a Khajiit to have seen us from so far away. But you picked your hiding place too well. That bush is just the right size to hide a surprise attack—one that my guards have learned to recognize in our days."

He nodded to the armored Breton. "Stand down, Dorian," he said. "I don't think we've anything to fear."

Cosette sheathed her swords across her back as the guards did the same, and she laughed to stave off her sudden feeling of discomfort. In all the time she'd lived in the Reach, Cosette had learned a lot about the wilderness of those steppes, and she had an uncanny ability to sense danger long before she could see it as a result of this knowledge. Right now, the hairs of her neck were tingling, and she felt her heartbeat quicken just a little.

There was an air about this Dunmer that she did not like one bit.

"We're mages of Winterhold," she grinned, hiding her anxiety. "Unlike you, we don't need lackeys to deal with so-called bandits."

The man called Dorian growled, but the Dunmer's bushy eyebrows rose a few millimeters at the name of the town. "Winterhold?" he said pensively. "So the rumors are true, then? Someone really is searching for powerful relics."

Cosette winced as Vinye aimed a kick at her shin, out of sight of the wizard and his retinue.

"I suppose you'd know all about that, wouldn't you?" she heard the Altmer ask accusingly. "We've already had our fair share of would-be scholars, and we're not in the mood to listen to more lies from thieves."

The Dunmer stepped back. "Oh, dear—you misunderstand. I study the Dwemer, it is true, but I have never concerned myself with their artifacts at all. Merely that wondrous metal that is so often found in their ruins."

He stepped forward, and extended his hand. "Taron Dreth—the foremost authority on Dwemer metallurgy in Tamriel, at your service."

None of the mages moved to return the gesture, including Cosette, and Taron's bravado faltered only a little. But Vinye had dove into her satchel, and was now leafing through a book she'd just pulled from there. "Taron Dreth," she repeated under her breath. "_The_ Taron Dreth? Who wrote _The Aetherium Wars_?"

Taron's face brightened and darkened at the same time. "The very same," he affirmed.

"So, then," Vinye said, "you can tell us a few things about this mineral called Aetherium, can't you?"

Taron was silent for a few moments. "If you're wondering where to find some, it is very difficult to obtain; there are no surviving examples of such a mineral anywhere—at least, none known to me. The ruins of Arkngthamz—assuming you've read the book—would definitely be the place to start looking, to be sure. However, I've word from very reliable sources that lately, destructive earthquakes have marred the region where its ruins are said to lie. If that's the case, then I highly doubt they'd be accessible anymore."

Cosette laughed. "And what if those earthquakes uncovered the ruins instead—would you be willing to take that chance?" she asked. "Are you just going to give up the ghost so easily?"

Malys huffed. "I know what being in an earthquake feels like," she muttered.

Taron, for his part, was looking at Cosette slightly askew, as though her words had had an impact on her. His bodyguards were also exchanging glances with one another.

Finally, Taron nodded. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt to check," he said. "But it's a long way to the Reach. We were on our way to Falkreath take on supplies before we found you. Perhaps if you could meet us there at your earliest convenience, we could explore the ruins as one large group. Does that sound like a proposition?"

Cosette's eyes flicked from Vinye to Malys and back again. Both of them wore looks on their faces that suggested they were less than happy this offer. Frankly, Cosette couldn't blame them—one never knew what was still waiting inside Dwarven ruins. She thought of the unspeakable things she had done in Bthardamz, and did her best to suppress the tears.

And then there were the Forsworn. Cosette wasn't worried for herself—she knew better than anyone here, and perhaps in all of Skyrim, how the Forsworn worked. But the others … Cosette shook her head. Taron had his bodyguards—and hopefully some power to back up that enormous pretention of his. As for Vinye and Malys—Cosette stifled a chuckle. She could let the two mages taste the harsh reality of the Reach for themselves.

And if her true identity was discovered in the process, Cosette would deal with the situation accordingly.

She cleared her throat, and turned to Taron. "We'll think about it," she said evenly. "If you see us in Falkreath, you'll know our decision."

And with that, she walked past Taron and his retinue, continuing south to Shor's Stone. Vinye and Malys ran to catch up with her.

It was a long while before the Altmer spoke up. "What do you think?" asked Vinye.

"About Taron?" Cosette pursed her lips in thought. "I really don't know. But when you've spent enough time in Markarth, you can get this sixth sense about you—you can't really explain what it is, but you know it's going to happen all the same."

"And what's this sixth sense telling you now?"

The Breton's face was grim. "That if we're not careful, he could be bad news."

Malys was deep in thought. "What should we do, then? If they double-cross us somehow?"

Cosette did not blink. "Then we'll just have to kill them all, won't we?"

She didn't need to tilt her head back to know her casual statement had made them uneasy. _Weaklings_, she thought. Admittedly, they were good in firefights, but when it came to bare-bones survival, it only boiled down to one lesson—one that Cosette had drilled into her head ever since she'd first become part of the Cullers.

_Kill … or be killed_.

* * *

_Next chapter: The three mages have a very tall order ahead of them—in many senses of the word._


End file.
